Master of My Domain
by midnightandahalf
Summary: "He thought he could get away with it, just because he was a hot-shot multimillionaire CEO with way too much authority and ridiculously blue eyes. It was just so unfair that a man so infuriating could be so attractive." AU Trory Future Fic
1. Meet Mr Donnel

**Master of My Domain**

"He thought he could get away with it, just because he was a hot-shot multimillionaire CEO with way too much authority and ridiculously blue eyes. It was just so unfair that a man so infuriating could be so attractive." AU Trory Future Fic

 **Disclaimer:** Gilmore Girls was created by ASP and is property of Warner Bros Television/Hofflund Polone/Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **(Long) A/N:** MOMD is a story I started many years ago. I can't recall whether I had ever actually posted any of it, but it's been on my mind again since AYITL. (More accurately, since my anticipation of AYITL, which was much more exciting than the experience itself, IMO.) I've decided to revisit, edit, and (re?)post.

You may notice some evidence that the storyline was originally inspired by a certain EL James novel. What can I say, I kind of love the idea of Tristan as a loveable, slight megalomaniac. If you're looking for BDSM, though, keep browsing - you won't find that here. Though there may be a splash of citrus here and there; mind the rating.

Anyway, enough rambling. This is a Trory Future Fic. It wasn't AU when I originally started, though now I guess it is, since we're pretending AYITL doesn't exist. Join me in this new reality, won't you?

 **Chapter 1 – Meet Mr. Donnel**

" _Three blocks from Main Street on Kellerton Blvd, more than a dozen dedicated customers patiently waited for the doors of Revampt to open for the first time, having already fallen in love with the owner's hand-crafted recycled and reclaimed furniture, previously available only to those who frequented the West End Farmers' Market before 10am every Saturday."_

 _Not bad, but a bit wordy. Try again._

" _A new store opening in the posh Kellerton corridor saw a morning rush of over a dozen dedicated customers eager to add eco-friendly furniture to their -"_

"Earth to Rory! Hello?"

"Hmm?" I blinked and shook my head. "Sorry, what?"

"Where did you just go?" Dani laughed, turning her attention back to the road.

"Sorry," I repeated, still trying to anchor my attention back to reality. "Just thinking about the weekend. TGIF and all that, you know?"

Dani gave me a wry smile indicating her disbelief as she flipped on her blinker and waited to pull into the parking lot. "Uh-huh. Sure."

She knew me too well.

I let my mind drift back to fantasizing a lead for my latest story. Just a few minor tweaks and it would be wrapped, and then I could move on with the rest of my day. I had some great angles in mind for some fascinating drug research going on at Yale's med school. Of course, there was also the parent rally last night at Bristow Middle School. I knew Simpson had been covering it, but last night as I'd been trying to fall asleep, I'd filled an entire page with notes and ideas for a follow-up piece.

Dani interrupted my train of thought once again. "Speaking of TGIF, what are your plans tonight? I've got a blind date at 6, but we know there's a good chance that won't last long."

"Does the poor guy know that he's already a foregone conclusion?"

Dani was one of my best friends, but even I couldn't deny that she was a bit flighty when it came to the guys she dated. To say the least.

"Who goes on a date at 6pm?" she groused. "The Early Bird Special is so not sexy. Anyway, want to grab a drink after? Maybe go dancing?"

"I'm sorry, have we met? When have I ever wanted to go dancing?"

"Well excuse me for trying to expand your horizons. It wouldn't kill you to be exposed to a little culture now and then, you know?"

Dani could barely keep a straight face through that one, and I snorted, knowing that Dani's venue of choice was The Church, a nightclub that definitely didn't prioritize cultural sophistication.

"I'm having drinks with Paris tonight," I told her. "You're welcome to meet us there. I'm meeting her at Elliot's at 7."

"Maybe," she muttered noncommittally, then took the opportunity to climb out of the car.

I rolled my eyes as I followed her. Although she denied it, I knew Dani was still a little bit intimidated by Paris.

I shivered while we hurried across the parking lot, pulling the collar of my jacket up against the crisp fall breeze. It was the time of year when we were on the verge of transitioning to heavier coats, and this morning's chilly temps had me suspecting that the tipping point had arrived.

I called a greeting to Alex at security as we made our way past him, rushing to catch the elevator doors before they closed. Seth and Lacey, both copyeditors, made room for us as we exchanged pleasantries. I pressed the button for both my floor and Dani's, since she was preoccupied by Seth trying his hand at flirting. Again. Dani just seemed to naturally bring that out of people.

Lacey hovered in the corner of the elevator, her cheeks turning red. I didn't know how Seth could miss the fact that she'd harbored a crush on him since they both started work at the paper together over two years ago.

"I'll let you know how La Luz is," he was promising Dani after she'd rebuked his invitation. Again. "If it's good, maybe you can join me next time."

"Yeah, maybe," Dani agreed.

 _I recognize that 'maybe'._ _It's not going to happen, Seth._

Seth and Lacy departed at the third floor, and I turned to Dani once the doors closed. "I thought you were dying to try La Luz."

"I tried it last week. It's decent, but the enchiladas at Café Mex are way better and half the price. And I already dated Seth three months ago."

"What?" I demanded. "I don't remember that. Where was I?"

"It was during the Ralston protests."

"Ah." That explained it. I'd spent every waking minute, and even some of the non-waking ones, either on the scene at the complex or at the office. Damn, that was a good couple of weeks. That protest had fueled a feature series about corruption within the local prison, and had ended with five fairly high-profile arrests.

With a little effort, I turned my attention back to my Dani. "I can't believe you already went out with Seth, and that I didn't know anything about it. I thought you said he wore too much argyle?"

"He does! Did you not _see_ his sweater vest?" The elevator opened to the 5th floor, and she shrugged as she stepped out. "But hey, a girl's gotta eat."

"Amen to that, I guess. See you after!" I called.

The rest of my journey to the 7th and final floor was spent sipping coffee and contemplating my strategy for the day. I took a deep breath and smiled as the doors opened and I stepped out into the organized chaos that I loved so much.

I hadn't taken three steps out of the elevator before being accosted by a fellow reporter. "Rory!"

I was proud that I only jumped a little when he popped up in front of me, and didn't spill a drop of coffee. A true pro.

"Hi Kevin, what's up?"

"A five-car pile-up on 95, a two-alarm fire on 75th, and don't forget we only have three hours until the 411."

I blinked at him. "That's a lot of numbers."

"What?"

"Nevermind," I assured him. Kevin didn't have a sarcastic bone in his body, but sic him on a reluctant source and he'd dig until he got the good stuff. "Do you have something for me?"

A shout came from across the floor. "The two-alarm on Grant was upgraded, who do we have out there?"

"Kassner!" Kevin called over his shoulder, then turned back to me. I didn't have any free hands, so he slapped a lime green sticky note on top of the file I carried. The voice that had called out made another inquiry, and he sighed irritably. "Hang on!"

I squinted and tried to make out the writing on the post-it he'd given me. "What's this?"

"The note says it all. Thought you might be interested." He didn't spare another second, turning around and shouting directives to help coordinate additional resources, dispatching a photog to meet Kassner at the fire.

The energy in the newsroom was high this morning, and I sighed in contentment as I made my way through the controlled chaos to my own little corner of paradise.

I found my desk in its usual state, overrun with documents that were overflowing from the file organizer I used as an inbox and threatening to overtake my keyboard. As soon as I left every night, this place became a dumping ground for everyone's leads that they didn't have time to follow up with. Of course, most of the time it was only the ones they thought were duds. And usually they were right.

"Rory!"

I looked up to see Jamie Gonzalez striding toward me. Speak of the devil. She tossed her long blond hair over her shoulder, and behind her I could see several pairs of male eyes follow her down the aisle between desks. As she approached I could hear the tell-tale jingling that always accompanied Jamie's imminent arrival thanks to her penchant for dangly jewelry. Usually it was useful as a warning so that I could busy myself with work and prepare my best 'leave me alone' vibe. Unfortunately, I doubted that would work this time; I gave a mournful gaze to my computer, which was still in the early stages of booting up.

"Rory!" Jamie called again. She stopped as she reached my desk and smiled down at me.

"Oh, hi, Jamie."

 _That's it. Pretend like you didn't notice her. That'll help._

I plastered on a fake smile, albeit not a very enthusiastic one.

"I'm so glad I caught you! You're not busy, are you?"

 _Who, me? Busy?_

I glanced down at the papers in my hands and still covering most of the surface area of my workspace. My computer had finally started and Outlook was still synchronizing my new mail. 48 new messages so far.

I sighed. "Nope. Not busy at all. What's up?"

"Well, here's the thing." As she spoke, she perched herself on the edge of my desk. "I got this amazing opportunity for an exclusive interview with Tuck Draper, which as I'm sure you know is really a fantastic coup…"

I tuned out just a little as Jamie went on, waiting for her to get to the point. She was using her hands to animatedly tell her tale and as she shifted on my desk, I eyed the wrinkled papers she sat upon with dismay.

"So, I guess what I was hoping," she continued, "Is that you wouldn't mind following up on that restaurant opening for me? I mean, usually we wouldn't even bother covering it, but Sam figured that since it's apparently a big deal in some circles, it couldn't hurt to have the story in the can. Just in case, you know?"

"Um, wow," I mumbled. A subject line of one of my new emails had caught my eye and I was trying not to be distracted. "A restaurant opening? When is it?"

"Well they open the doors at 8, but it doesn't really start until 10."

I found it slightly insulting that she assumed I wouldn't have other plans on a Friday night.

Usually Jamie's leads weren't incredibly fascinating, but what could it hurt? I was sure Paris wouldn't mind joining for some free food after our drink. And besides, as Dani pointed out, a girl's got to eat.

"Sure," I conceded. "Just send me the details, okay?"

"Oh Rory, thanks! I knew I could count on you!"

Happy to be able to turn my thoughts to more interesting matters, I clicked on the email that had caught my eye. As I skimmed, my spirits lifted, and I couldn't suppress the smile that broke out on my face.

"And just what are you grinning about?"

I looked up as Angela sat down at her desk, across the aisle from mine.

"The New York Times picked up my article from yesterday!"

"Oh my God, congrats!" she exclaimed. Angela was a columnist, one of my favorite people in editorial, and a close friend. "That's amazing, Rory, I'm so proud of you!"

I couldn't contain the giddy laugh that bubbled up my throat. "Thanks! Wow, I can't believe it."

"How many is that now? Four?"

"I think so."

 _That's a lie. I know so. I've been keeping track, and I may or may not have all the clippings in a drawer at home._

"Four stories in… how long has it been? A year and a half?"

Had it only been that long since the Hartford Courant had been on the Times' radar?

"They must be pretty desperate for content over there," I joked.

"Shut up." Angela wasn't having any of my self-criticizing sarcasm. "It's awesome, and don't you forget it. I bet now they're really wishing you'd gone to work for them when they gave you the chance, huh?"

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, and if I'd gone to them I'd have four published articles, rather than who-knows-how-many here at the Courant."

After I'd wrapped up on Obama's campaign trail, I'd been approached to come work for the NY Times as a copyeditor, but I'd turned them down to come to the Hartford Courant as a features reporter. It was a scary decision, and one that I occasionally second-guessed, but I didn't regret it. Reporting was what I loved, and I figured I'd get to do more of it with a medium-sized daily like the Courant than with a gargantuan machine like the Times.

My phone rang and I picked it up immediately. "Hartford Courant, Features, this is Rory Gilmore."

And so it began. Four phone calls over the next two hours led to one lead that was maybe, possibly, worth following up on - if it were a slow news day. I managed to sort through and deal with my inbox, sidetracked only briefly by an email from my mom with a link to a YouTube clip of last week's SNL. She was consistently about a week behind, but still felt the need to forward me the skits that she thought were particularly hilarious. At least she usually wasn't wrong.

After replying to or filing away all of my new emails, I happily settled further into my desk chair and queued up the story I'd been working on. I easily filtered out the noise of the bustling newsroom as I sunk into writing mode, testing out some of the leads I'd been testing out during the morning commute.

Forty-five minutes later, I saved the article and closed the window, planning to come back later for editing. I glanced at the time in the corner of my desktop. Less than an hour until the 411, the weekly departmental meeting for brainstorming, pitching ideas, and general collaboration with colleagues. Plus, there were donuts. My stomach growled in anticipation.

My computer dinged and an instant message window appeared.

 **DavidFamlin: Got a minute?**

Why, yes, as a matter of fact I did have a minute. I would always have a minute for the features editor. That was aside from the fact that I truly did always enjoy talking to David. The features department was lucky to have a fantastic boss.

 **RoryGilmore: Sure. How can I help?**

 **DavidFamlin: Let's chat in my office. I'll brief you.**

 _Oooh, intrigue._

I unhooked my laptop from the monitor and stood from my desk, stretching a bit before I turned to Angela. "Off to see David."

She nodded dismissively. She was like me when she wrote. One time a fire alarm went off in the building and I ignored it until I finished the thought I was trying to convey. Turned out, it had been an actual fire, down on the fourth floor. Someone left their Eggo in the toaster too long.

My curiosity was already burning as I arrived at David's office. I knocked quickly before I stuck my head in.

"Hey, come on in." He gestured to one of the chairs opposite his desk without looking up from his computer. "Shut the door behind you, please."

I raised my eyebrows but followed direction. David almost never closed his door.

I took a seat while his fingers continued to fly across his keyboard. Single-minded focus was pretty common around here. Maybe it was something in the water. I waited patiently for him to finish his task.

My eyes fell on a framed picture on his desk, and it was one I hadn't seen before. His daughter, Kayla, was the focus of the shot, blowing dandelion seeds at the camera. The background featured David's wife June most prominently, but other people could be seen milling about. I leaned closer for a better look, realizing that it must've been taken at the paper's family picnic a couple months ago.

"Sorry, Rory." David turned his attention to me and followed my gaze to the picture. He smiled with fatherly pride. "Nice, isn't it?"

"She's adorable."

"Dani took it, you know."

"It's beautiful."

"She's a talent," he agreed. He placed his elbows on his desk and leaned toward me. That was his 'let's get down to business' look.

"Do you have a lead for me?" I asked eagerly.

"Oh, more than that. It's all set up. I'm handing you the best story of the month on a silver platter." His green eyes sparkled.

 _Damn him. He was trying to bait me, and it was working._

"Oh?" I feigned mild intrigue. It wasn't often that David played it close to the vest; he was usually brisk and straightforward. This time he was savoring it. It must be good.

He smiled. "This morning I got an email from a contact at Donnel Enterprises. You've heard of it?"

"I've heard of it, but don't know much," I admitted. I wracked my brain for some background facts. "Privately-owned company, started off as a small service provider before it blew up. They acquired Within Media, which started their expansion into that market, and then they diversified from there. From what I understand, the bulk of the business today stems from the media market, mainly online."

David shook his head at me in amusement. "Your definition of not knowing much is pretty loose. I'd say that's enough to get you through. They're aware that you'll be going in with no background research, since this is so last-minute."

"I'm 'going in'?"

He shared a conspiratorial smile. "Do you remember the story we ran about six months ago, about the alternative fuels research project that Yale's School of Engineering had to scrap because of budget cuts?"

"Of course. They were looking into alternative fuels and renewable energy, and the program was in its infancy but signs were pointing to progress."

"Monday at noon, Donnel Enterprises will be having a press conference to announce that they'll be funding a $10 million research project to continue what had been started."

I blinked. It took a minute longer for my mind to catch up with David's hints, and my jaw dropped. "Monday. The press conference will be Monday… but I'm going in today?"

He nodded, grinning. "The story will be embargoed until Monday, but either way, _your_ story will be published hours before the rest of the world would even have a chance."

 _Breaking news. An exclusive scoop._ This _was the type of story I lived for._

I took a deep breath, feeling a surge of adrenaline. "Who's my contact? What's the format?"

"That's the best part."

He had me hanging on his every word, and he was loving it. If I didn't like him so much, I'd kill him. "Tell me!"

 _David: 1, Rory: 0. I'm practically begging him._

"You've got a personal interview with the CEO in an hour."

It took me thirty minutes once I left David's office for me to get out the door. I was going to miss the 411, so I typed up a summary of my stories on deck to send to the meeting with Angela. Then there were the couple of urgent emails to answer, and a brief fire to put out regarding a quote for a story I was working on. I'd had to swing by 5 to see Dani and pick up her keys so that I could actually get to my interview.

By the time I was on my way, I was cursing every red light I encountered. If I was lucky, it would take about 20 minutes to get from the Hartford Courant to Donnel Enterprises' Connecticut office.

I knew David said it was fine that I had no background, but there was no way I could go into an interview with the company's CEO _that_ unprepared, so I'd stolen a quick ten minutes for research.

The CEO in question was Tristan Donnel, a self-made multimillionaire and, I noted, a Yale alum. Hopefully that commonality would earn me some points in his book. I did love a cooperative interview.

He'd apparently started his company during undergrad at Northwestern, and by the time he graduated with his MBA from Yale, the firm had a net worth of over $100 million. Over the past five years, that net worth had grown exponentially.

What had started out as a simple services business, focused on matching unneeded resources with buyers, had apparently turned into a gazillion dollar mega-corporation.

 _Yes, a 'gazillion dollar' corporation. Very professional, Rory._

I couldn't recall as I pulled off the highway the exact revenue, but I knew I'd definitely widened my eyes at the number when I'd skimmed my research before leaving the office. Donnel Enterprises was based in Connecticut, with large offices in New York City and London and several satellite offices around the globe.

As I pulled up to the building, I wondered how on earth I could've gone years without noticing it in downtown Hartford. It wasn't an exceptionally tall or large building, but it certainly made an impression. The afternoon sun highlighted the light stone, steel, and glass, making the building look almost ethereal, and certainly pristine.

I pulled into a Visitor spot, silently thanking the Parking Gods that I hadn't had to spend time searching. I quickly closed the GPS on my phone, shoved it into my bag, and strode to the front entrance as quickly as my heels would allow.

The first floor of the building was constructed of wall-to-wall windows, and the upper levels were polished white stone with steel accents. Shiny, and slightly intimidating.

The theme of vague intimidation continued into the lobby. My heels clicked on the white marble floors as I made my way from the door to the reception desk on the opposite side of the room. The woman staffing the desk fit in perfectly with the décor of the room in her sharp, grey suit and platinum blond hair. She had a smile on her face that didn't waver as I approached, and the longer it remained frozen, the more unsettling it became.

"Um… hi."

 _Wow, I'm eloquent today. I hope this continues into the interview._

"Welcome to Donnel Enterprises," she announced. "How may I help you?"

"My name's Rory Gilmore. I'm here for an interview with Mr. Donnel."

"May I see your identification, please?" the woman asked with her ever-present smile.

I pulled my press badge from my bag and handed it over, then waited while she picked up the phone, her eyes never leaving me. I shifted my weight, somewhat disconcerted, and also wishing that she would hurry it up. After concluding that I was, indeed, expected, she handed me back my badge.

"Welcome, Miss Gilmore. You may proceed to the 10th floor and check in with Charlene." She handed me what appeared to be a visitor's badge. "You'll need that for the elevator."

I pressed the button for the elevator and waited for it to arrive, glancing back and smiling awkwardly at the receptionist. The ding of the arrival seemed to echo in the empty lobby.

I saw what she meant about the badge when the silver doors closed and I pressed the button for 10, and nothing happened. My eyes searched the panel for the reader and I swiped my handy badge, then tried the button again. To my relief, it worked this time.

A glance at my watch revealed that it was 1:55. I typically preferred to arrive at least 15 minutes early, but this would do. It had been short notice, after all. I rummaged in my purse until my hand clamped on my notepad, then groped for my digital recorder, just to reassure myself that they were there.

The doors opened with a ding and I stepped out onto the 10th floor. More white marble. Just like the bottom, the top of the building featured wall-to-wall windows, offering a panoramic view of downtown.

It was almost like a mini version of the lobby downstairs, with the extra touches of a few modern-looking plants. The only piece of artwork in the room was a large, unframed abstract painting hanging above the reception desk.

I approached the desk and before I could introduce myself to the woman I assumed was Charlene, she smiled and greeted me. "Welcome to Donnel Enterprises, Miss Gilmore. Mr. Donnel is currently busy, but would you please have a seat?"

"Thank you," I replied quietly, fearing that my voice would echo in the otherwise empty room.

"Can I get you anything to drink? Water, coffee?"

"Coffee would be great, thank you." I took a seat in a white leather Barcelona chair. Charlene disappeared through one of two doorways behind her desk and appeared moments later with my coffee in a white mug. I accepted it with a smile and she returned to her post behind the desk.

I surveyed the foyer from my seat. Charlene's jet black hair was an almost shocking contrast to the whites and grays that filled the room. Her skirt and blazer were a crisp heather grey that matched that of the lobby receptionist. Perhaps it was some kind of uniform. Regardless, they were both very well-kempt with an air of sophistication. Very corporate.

I looked down at myself and wished again that I'd had some notice. Maybe I would've worn something different. The black pencil skirt was decent enough, especially with my favorite heels, but my white button-up was a bit wrinkled beneath my black vest. I halfheartedly tugged at it, to no avail.

 _I have no reason to be self-conscious,_ I reminded myself. _So what is this guy is some hot-shot CEO multimillionaire? I know better than to judge a book by its cover._

He was probably a trust fund kid who'd started his company with a hefty head start. He was probably just the face of the company, a front man with a recognizable name whom they cart out for special occasions but who really doesn't work at all. He probably partied his way through Northwestern.

Although my research did say he graduated magna cum laude from undergrad. And then he went back for his EMBA from Yale and completed the program in nearly half the time it was designed for.

"Miss Gilmore?"

I looked up at Charlene, startled out of my thoughts.

"Mr. Donnel will see you now."

 _How did she know? There was no phone call, no intercom._

I shook my head to clear it. That was a mystery to ponder at a later date.

Charlene led me to a frosted glass door on the far wall; the only wall not made of windows. She pulled the door open and gestured me in with a sweep of her arm.

"Mr. Donnel, Miss Gilmore for you," she announced. Then the door closed behind me and Charlene was gone.

Mr. Donnel stood at the far side of the room with his back to me, facing yet another set of floor-to-ceiling windows. "Yes, I understand, Mr. Tori."

 _He's on the phone? I thought Charlene said he was ready! That's what you get when you try to communicate by telepathy rather than telephone!_

He continued his conversation while I hovered awkwardly near the door. He didn't even turn around. He had yet to acknowledge my presence in any way, and I bristled as I stared at his back. How dare he expect me to wait complacently for him to decide he was ready to dain to speak with me? Our appointment time had begun five minutes ago.

"But you must agree that the process and integration team has a better overall view of the situation," he said. "Wouldn't it be beneficial to take advantage of their expertise?"

He stood facing the windows, overlooking downtown. Mr. Donnel wore a sharply pressed slate gray suit. Maybe it really was a uniform. No wrinkles for him. Surely a man such as himself would never be caught dead in a wrinkled shirt. If his office space was any indication, he demanded clean lines and order in all things.

His office was as sparsely modern as the rest of the building. His desk was a glass-top behemoth, at least twice the size of my desk at the paper. It held two huge monitors and an open Macbook, and he had a neatly organized wireframe inbox of his own. None of his papers dared to be out of place. There was a bound and covered document open with a yellow highlighter sitting on top.

A large bamboo plant ornamented one corner of the room, and an artfully arranged cluster of photographs hung on the opposite wall. It was a series of city skylines, and it was the most personal touch I'd seen yet.

"We can discuss logistics later, but for now I'd like to focus on the broad strategic plan," he said.

My eyes were drawn back to the CEO himself, still gazing out over his kingdom of downtown Hartford. He shifted and placed his hand on his hip, making his grey blazer stretch tighter across his broad shoulders. The color did seem to suit blond hair. His pants fell from narrow hips and I rolled my eyes in frustration as I realized that he was most likely attractive. At least, he definitely was if his face matched his body. Of their own accord, my eyes fell south from his hips to appreciate the rest of him.

Somehow it didn't seem fair to be both rich, successful, and attractive. It made you think you could keep people waiting and they would be just tickled when you finally decided to give them the time of day. I sighed with impatience and planted my own hand on my hip.

"Right," he said definitively. "We'll continue this conversation later. I have pressing matters to attend to."

He hung up without another word of goodbye, and when Mr. Donnel finally turned to face me, and my jaw nearly dropped. And it wasn't at the realization that he really was attractive. At least not _only_.

It was because Tristan Donnel - the hot-shot multimillionaire CEO front man with the Ivy League EMBA - was actually Tristan DuGrey. And I'd just been checking out his ass.

While I worked to rehinge my jaw and pull myself together, I saw him give me an appraising once-over. When his eyes finally made their way back to my face, my gaze locked on his and he gave me a slow smile. "Hello, Mary."

I was too shocked to reply. In fact, I was too shocked to do anything but stand there dumbly and stare at him, blinking in confusion.

He gave me a lopsided grin that was full of cockiness and arrogance and so many other infuriating things, and yet made my skin flush and my pulse quicken. "I was so hoping they'd send you."


	2. Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary

**Master of My Domain**

 **Disclaimer:** Gilmore Girls was created by ASP and is property of Warner Bros Television/Hofflund Polone/Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **A/N:** Thank you for reading, and for all the reviews, faves, and/or follows! It warms my heart that there's still an audience for Trory stories, after all these years. ;-) Chapter updates won't always be this quick - I'm aiming for weekly - but I wanted to send Chapter 2 out into the universe before I go out of town for a few days.

 **Chapter 2 – Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary**

I stood frozen in the doorway for an unbearably long moment, growing increasingly conscious of the fact that two piercing blue eyes were fixed on me intently. All I could do was wait for my brain to catch up with the situation.

And I was also kind of waiting for Ashton Kutcher and a camera crew to jump out from behind the potted plant.

"What's the matter, Mary? Cat got your tongue?"

"What the hell is happening?" I blurted. Then immediately felt my flush deepen, having just cursed at the hot-shot-CEO-multimillionaire I was here to interview.

Tristan grinned. "Aren't you happy to see me?"

"What's are you doing here?" I demanded.

"I work here."

"What… how…" I closed my eyes, willing myself to form a coherent thought, and hoping that it would lead to at least a semi-coherent sentence.

The last time I'd seen Tristan DuGrey was in the hallway of Chilton, and he'd been headed off to military school. At the time, we'd seemingly come to a recent truce of sorts, after an antagonistic relationship.

"Should I start at the beginning?" Tristan's voice snapped me out of my trance and I looked him in the eye.

 _Wrong move._

Looking at him wasn't going to help me regain my faculties, so I directed my gaze over his shoulder. I opened my mouth to speak, but couldn't find the words. Was I literally speechless? I'd never been speechless before in my life. I cleared my throat, but then simply nodded.

"Very well." He looked amused. Damn him. "A couple months ago, I was reading the Times. Just the usual, staying up to date on pending mergers and acquisitions and checking stock prices."

As he spoke, he slowly began to move toward me, walking around his desk. I backed up a step. He noticed and raised an eyebrow, but then retreated slightly to lean against the front of the desk, facing me.

"Anyway," he continued, "I got involved in reading an article about how gas prices could be influenced by making sustainable food choices. It was very well-researched, very thorough."

That was my article. It had been my third one picked up by the Times. I was proud of that piece, and I found myself waiting with nearly bated breath to find out what he'd thought of it.

"It was good," he granted. He said it almost as if he were surprised, and I bristled a bit, but he was already continuing. "I was curious enough to do some research of my own on the topic, so I saved the article. When I referred back to it, my eye caught the byline, and imagine my surprise! _Rory Gilmore_."

"That doesn't explain anything," I complained. "What am I doing here?"

"Well I thought you were here to get a story. But if you have other inclinations, who am I to deny you?" He pushed off from his desk and walked toward me again, pausing in front of me and looking down. "I'm open to suggestions."

"Stop it, Tristan. You know what I mean."

 _Dammit, he's making me sound like a petulant high schooler all over again!_

"Do you mean, how did you come to be conducting this interview? That's just pure luck."

I scoffed. "My, don't you think highly of yourself."

"I meant because this exclusive will be a great story for your paper. Of course, if you feel lucky for other reasons, I won't judge you."

"You wish."

He smirked. "You're right, I do."

 _Tristan: 1, Rory: 0. This is not my day._

He was still standing in front of me, encroaching on my personal space. His blue eyes danced with humor as he gazed down at me. He was enjoying this.

I started to get a sinking feeling. Had he set this up? I'd thought that David assigning me this story had been a good sign, that he trusted me with something this big. If Tristan had manipulated the whole thing, that was really going to burst my bubble.

"Did you request me for this interview?"

"No. Though I can't deny that I'm pleased with the outcome, as I said, that part was just luck."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm quite sure. I do things purposefully, and I take my business seriously." He stepped away from me and I relaxed, not realizing that I'd been so tense. He leaned against his desk once more, crossing his arms over his chest. "I do admit that I did some research to learn that you work for the Hartford Courant, and that may be why I had my people contact that particular paper for this story. But I didn't request you specifically. I knew they'd send one of their best for this, and I didn't want to risk getting someone inferior."

I drew myself up, indignant. "Inferior?"

"I only mean that if I had requested you specifically, I wouldn't have the advantage of this assignment being given to someone who was objectively selected for their skill level." He shrugged unapologetically.

 _Now he's insulting my skills? How dare he!_

"My skill level is quite sufficient, I assure you."

"Prove it."

I could feel my face turning hot and willed myself not to react to his baiting, fully aware that he was watching eagerly. "Yeah, right."

 _Great. Perfect. Way to go with the witty comeback._

I knew I sounded like a child, and I hated that, but I couldn't seem to help myself. He made me uncomfortable. He ruffled my feathers; always had. And not only did he know it, but he took pleasure in it. It had been like that between us since high school, and apparently nothing had changed. One look at the guy, and all I wanted to do was slap that smug look off his face. Or…

 _No, slap! Yes, definitely slap. Nothing else._

To distract myself, I continued to work up into an argument. "You couldn't even have given us proper time to prepare for the interview? This research grant must have been confirmed at least a week ago, and yet you held back until the very last minute - why? Just because you can? You've always liked to pull strings and push people's buttons."

He was looking at her with amused bewilderment. "What?"

"You know perfectly well what I'm talking about."

"No, I don't."

I had focused my eyes on the skyline behind him, partly because I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of thinking he had my full attention, and partly because I seemed to have a hard time focusing when I looked him in the eye. But when I chanced a peek at him, the look on his face clearly said he really didn't know what I was talking about.

"I had my assistant contact your editor on Wednesday," he told me calmly. "That was the first day that we knew for sure that the grant was going to go through."

"Who did you contact?"

"David Famlin."

 _David lied to me? He sent me in unprepared, on purpose?_

Annoyingly enough, Tristan could apparently read me like a book. He raised his eyebrows. "Interesting. Your editor is testing you."

"What do you mean, testing me?" I snapped.

"It seems he withheld some information from you. If it were me, I might do that if I wanted to see how an employee would handle something." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You always did love to be prepared. Maybe he wants to see how you operate under pressure, without a plan."

"Why?" I wondered aloud. Why would David care about seeing how I handled this?

"Don't ask me, Mary."

"Don't call me Mary," I muttered.

He smirked. "Rory."

Those two syllables wiped my mind clear of worrying about David. He'd made it sound dirty, and his eyes flashed with mischief.

"Stop it." To my dismay, my voice came out shaky. That wasn't the effect I'd been going for.

He started stalking toward me again, but I didn't think I wanted him any closer at that moment. I moved behind a chair in front of his desk, keeping the furniture between us. He placed his hands on the arm of the chair and leaned forward.

I cleared my throat. "I think it's time we start the interview."

He gave me a conspiratorial smile. "But I can think of so many more interesting things to do."

My mouth had suddenly gone dry. I tried to swallow, but my throat was like sandpaper. I tried again.

"Mr. Donnel," I demanded formally. I was desperate to get this show on the road, finish the interview, and make my escape. Tristan's presence had always had a strange and confounding effect on me, and it seemed to have multiplied over the years.

Tristan straightened up and crossed his arms. "Ms. Gilmore." He didn't drop his suggestive tone or his cocky smile.

My first question was easy. I'd been wondering about it since he'd turned around. "Why did you change your name from DuGrey to Donnel?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Not much for starting with softball questions, huh? I should've guessed that about you."

I blinked. "I didn't realize that this would be a difficult question."

He fixed me with a stare as I settled myself into a chair and dug my notebook out of my bag. He remained uncharacteristically silent.

"Should I take that as a 'no comment'?" I remarked dryly, my pen poised over paper.

"I'd prefer that you didn't mention the name DuGrey in the article." He sighed and rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. "Off the record?"

I glanced up at him in surprise, but shrugged. I laid down my pen as a sign of acquiescence. "Sure."

"I was emancipated when I was 17. When I created the company, I didn't want it named after my father, so I named it Donnel. After a couple of years, I legally changed my name." He sat back against his desk once again, arms folded. The humor was gone from his eyes.

My eyebrows were raised in surprise. So much for my poker face. I knew he hadn't gotten along with his father, but legal emancipation was a big step. And for someone like Tristan, it might've cost him his trust fund.

That was surprise number one in what was sure to become a most interesting interview. Reminding myself that we weren't there to talk about his past, I retrieved my recorder from my bag and got down to business.

"Do you mind if I record this?" I asked as I set the device on the table.

His eyes checked that the red indicator light was off before he answered. "I like being taped," he responded with a straight face. "What about you?"

I gave him a chastising look and flipped the on switch, with hope that keeping things on the record would help keep him in check for the remainder of the interview.

. . . . .

I RETURNED TO my desk to find that the inbox I'd taken great care to organize this morning was overflowing again. I shoved the memos aside, not even bothering to glance through them. I had a one-track mind, and I needed to spill the contents of my brain into my word processor.

 _Of course, only about three quarters of the contents are appropriate for publication._

I forced myself to focus on the story, shoving all competing thoughts into the dark recesses of my mind while I wrote. A couple hours later, I'd written the majority of the article, and found myself staring at the screen and waiting for inspiration to strike.

When divine intervention remained elusive after five more minutes, I opened my web browser and typed 'Tristan Donnel' into Google.

 _Just for kicks_ , I told myself.

The first hit, unsurprisingly, was Donnel Enterprises' webpage. The first fifty or so results were about the company, with only the occasional link about Tristan himself. I clicked on a few out of curiosity.

' _ **Tristan Donnel, CEO of Donnel Enterprises, at the 2016 Green is Universal Charity Auction. Donnel Enterprises matched donations up to $500 thousand for the funding of sustainable business practices. The evening's contributions totaled more than $1.2 million.'**_

I blew out a slow breath, continuing to process the amount of money that Donnel Enterprises had at its disposal. Half a million dollars as a match to charitable donations indicated that they must have a lot of spare cash to throw around.

' _ **At the 2017 Global Summit of the Sustainable Business Alliance, Donnel Enterprises was honored as Sustainable Business of the Year. CEO Tristan Donnel gave an acceptance speech to over seven hundred attendees.'**_

The pictures accompanying the articles were all similar, featuring Tristan shaking hands with a businessman or standing behind a podium speaking to an audience. I clicked one more link, and my eyes went straight to the picture, drawn by a vibrant flash of red.

' _ **From right: Joseph Binds, President of BluJay Corp, and wife Aleisha Binds; Tristan Donnel, CEO of Donnel Enterprises, and companion Marie Jancey.'**_

Tristan's 'companion' stood with her arm looped through his, smiling for the camera. In her heels, she and Tristan were the same height; her legs were endless beneath her gorgeous cocktail-length sapphire dress. She was the type of woman that one would expect to see on a CEO's arm.

I quickly closed the browser. With my interest in research thoroughly diminished, I turned my attention back to my article.

"Hey Rory!"

I glanced up to see Kevin standing above my desk. "What's up?"

"Did you get a chance to follow up on that lead? Interesting, right?"

"Yeah, sure, Kevin," I muttered dismissively. "Thanks."

Truth was, I hadn't even looked at the post-it yet. Who could blame me? I'd had a bit of a day.

He was turning to walk away as I finished typing a sentence, but I called him back when I remembered that I hadn't had a chance to catch up with Angela after the department meeting that afternoon. "Oh, Kevin! How was the 411?"

He looked at me incredulously. "You weren't there?"

"No," I ventured, slightly nervous at the intensity of his look. "Why, what did I miss?"

"Alan's retiring."

My jaw dropped for the second time in a day. "What?"

Kevin nodded sagely. "Yeah, that was pretty much everyone's reaction."

"Who's replacing him?"

"David."

 _And the hits just keep on coming!_

"What?" I gasped. Boy, I was eloquent today. David Famlin, Editor-in-Chief. That certainly had a nice ring to it. "Who's replacing David?"

"Nobody knows. He said he'll be announcing it at the end of the month. Honestly, I don't even think _he_ knows yet."

"Wow."

"Yeah, no kidding." Kevin shook his head. "Where were you, anyway?"

"Interview." And probably the less I said about that, the better.

I said goodbye to Kevin, and for the first time I noticed that the office had cleared out. There were only a few of us left, hunched over our computers and typing furiously. I sat with my chin in my hand, staring out the window, when suddenly the perfect phrase popped into my head and I turned my attention back to my story with renewed vigor.

By the time I clicked save and glanced at the clock, it was 6:12. Damn! I'd gotten carried away. If I hurried, I'd be able to get home in time to shower, change, and get to the bar. I still had to call Paris and break the news about the restaurant opening. I was fairly sure she'd be amenable; knowing Paris, I'd have her at the mention of free food.

I gathered up my laptop, recorder, and notepad, shoving them all into my bag. I peeled the green post-it off a file folder and stuck it to my monitor, mentally promising to follow up on Monday to appease Kevin.

As the elevator doors closed on the nearly-empty features floor, I smiled to myself. Interesting day, killer story.

 _Take that, New York Times._


	3. Lime

**Master of My Domain**

 **Disclaimer:** Gilmore Girls was created by ASP and is property of Warner Bros Television/Hofflund Polone/Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **Chapter 3 – Lime**

I had just thrown my phone into my purse and was slipping on my heels when my mom's ringtone rang out from my bag. I fished it out, nearly stumbling as I pulled on my second shoe. "Hey, Mom, I'm on my way out the door. What's up?"

"Luke and I just watched _Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps_."

"Oh, no."

"Have you seen it? And if so, why didn't you warn me?" she demanded.

"Of course I haven't seen it. Why would you watch that?"

"Um, hi, have we met? You know my weird obsession with Shia LaBeouf."

"Ah, yes," I laughed. "You're right, I should've known."

"Right, and now we're back to _why_ didn't you warn me?"

"I don't understand how it's become my responsibility to warn you away from movies that I haven't even seen."

"I gave you life. You owe me. My god, Rory," she complained. "That's two hours and thirteen minutes of my life that I'll never get back.""

"That's the price you pay for watching Shia LaBeouf's movies."

She suddenly brightened. "Hey, speaking of, do you remember when you made me watch _The Time Traveler's Wife_?"

"I don't think the memory of your reaction will ever fade." I rolled my eyes, knowing full well she couldn't see me.

"Do you also remember the price for that mistake?"

"Yes," I ventured tentatively, my heart beginning to sink. I'd promised to watch a movie of her choosing, whenever she wanted.

"Transformers 3, my friend."

"No!"

"Oh, yes." She was chuckling in self-satisfaction.

"Mom!"

"Hey, fair's fair! I'm adding it to my Netflix list as we speak. There's no turning back, now."

There was no way that was happening, but I knew that trying to convince my mother of this fact was a feat that couldn't be accomplished within the next twenty minutes, just as I knew that I would never hear the end of it if I were late to meet Paris.

"Fine," I grumbled instead, promising myself that this wasn't over.

"Ha ha!" she exclaimed, too triumphant for my liking. "Get ready. 'Earth goes dark'."

 _What else can I possibly say to that?_

My only response was a heavy sigh.

"Love you, hun," Lorelai replied sweetly.

"Love you too, Mom. Bye."

The drive from my apartment to Elliot's Martini Bar was only fifteen minutes, and as I waited for a car to back out of a prime spot, I saw Paris's car park just up the street. We met in the middle, right in front of the door to the bar.

"Hey!" I called as I approached. "How are you?"

"I was fine, before the drive here. My bluetooth is on the fritz, so I had to listen to the radio."

"The horror," I mocked.

"Just wait, it gets worse." We took a seat in our usual booth near the back as Paris continued her story. "Of course it was more talk than music, and oh my god. If I didn't already know that the majority of people are too stupid to function, then I would've been completely convinced just by five minutes of this radio talk show alone."

"Impressive. Continue."

"One of the headlines of a UK daily today - I don't know which one, because they didn't even specify, they just said 'a UK newspaper', that shows you how great their sources are - but anyway, apparently a headline proclaimed that Americans are ignorant."

"What?" I gasped, feigning shock. Paris rolled her eyes.

"The host of this show is obviously not as enlightened as he thinks he is, because he thought he was going to prove the headline wrong. Good luck with that, my friend, am I right? So he starts taking callers, with the intention of asking them questions from the US citizenship test."

"Oh no," I laughed.

 _I can see exactly where this is going._

"Oh yes. So all they have to do is get four questions right. I listened for about 10 minutes before I got so disheartened that I had to change the station, and no one had answered more than one correctly."

"You're kidding."

"Oh my dear, sweet, naïve Rory. No, I'm not kidding. The first question they tried to ask was 'When was the Declaration of Independence adopted?'."

I blinked. "They didn't get that one right?"

"I swear I'm not making this up. The first girl answered, 'July 4, 1941'."

I was glad that we hadn't ordered our drinks yet, because if I'd had liquid in my mouth, I would've choked. Paris shook her head at me sadly while I laughed.

"1941, Rory! The Declaration of Independence was adopted in _1941_."

"That's awesome," I sighed after recovering from my laughter.

"That's tragic," Paris corrected.

A waitress came over to take our order and I ordered an Expressed Consent, a chocolate and espresso flavored martini. Paris opted for a Dorothy Parker Remembered, which was a citrusy masterpiece.

We chatted easily, catching up while we sipped our drinks. Though Paris and I had remained fairly close over the years, between both of our hectic careers, it wasn't uncommon for us to go a month at a time without seeing each other.

Paris told me all about a project she was working on for the hospital, including a press release she was in the process of writing and wanted a second opinion on. She'd often email me her articles when she wanted to make sure they didn't contain too much jargon. Apparently I was the perfect test audience - someone who hadn't attended medical school and had no way of knowing the association between atherosclerosis and carotid endarterectomy.

To be honest, sometimes I still did a double-take when I saw Paris Geller, M.D. in her signature at the bottom of the emails. But I guess that's nothing compared to the continuous shock of the fact that Paris - my friend Paris, quite possibly the worst people person I've ever known - somehow ended up in public relations.

She paused in her recap of the last four weeks of her life to cock her head at me. "I saw your article in the Times today, by the way. Congratulations."

I smiled, touched and thrilled that she'd noticed. "Thanks."

"Have you gotten any good assignments lately?"

We were thirty minutes into our conversation, and I still hadn't brought up my blast from the past. What are the odds that I'd run into Tristan DuGrey after more than a decade, on the same day I was also seeing Paris? She was likely the only person who might truly be able to appreciate the surreality.

"Interesting? You could say that."

"I can't tell if that's a yes, or a no."

"Assignment-wise, yes, it was definitely a great one." I stopped there, still debating with myself how I felt about the non-assignment aspects of the encounter.

Paris waited as patiently as she could for all of four seconds, and then gave me a look that clearly said I had some screws loose. "Is this your attempt at dramatic flair, or are you going to leave me hanging?"

"I had an interview with the CEO of Donnel Enterprises today."

"That is interesting."

"Thanks for the validation," I deadpanned. Her tone suggested that she hadn't expected to be impressed. Then again, Paris rarely was.

She ignored me. "Donnel has been making some waves in the medical community recently. Apparently they've been dipping a toe in the water of medical device manufacturing. What was the interview about?"

I shook my head and gave her a knowing smile. "You'll read about it on Monday."

She scowled a bit, but shrugged. "Fair enough. So you met the CEO? What's he like?"

Another question I wasn't sure how to answer.

 _Remember the guy you crushed on from grades six through ten? So, funny story…_

Paris was continuing on, oblivious to my inner monologue. "Donnel Enterprises' growth has been primarily through acquisition, and you never can tell with the folks at the helm of those types of companies. Could just be that he's gotten lucky so far. Does he have a good head on his shoulders?

That he does.

 _A seemingly intelligent head covered in a disarray of blond hair and a pair of blue eyes sharp enough to carve stone. And speaking of stone, he has a rock hard body to boot, if the way his jacket had stretched across his shoulders was any indication._

"What?" Paris inquired. She must've been reading something in my expression, because there was an unmistakable light of curiosity in her eyes, though it was quickly followed by dismay. "Oh, no. It's not some rich trust fund kid, is it? A pretty face that they haul out for photo ops and pay just enough to keep him from talking?"

 _He certainly does have a pretty face, but…_

"Not exactly."

Paris took another sip of her drink while she waited for my elaboration.

"It's Tristan DuGrey."

Paris laughed out loud. "Wow, I haven't heard that name in awhile. You must be way spaced out. You mean Tristan Donnel."

I shook my head. "No, I promise you, it's Tristan DuGrey."

Paris gave me a look that clearly indicated she thought I was losing my marbles. "What about him?"

"It's him! Tristan Donnel is the CEO of Donnel Enterprises. And he's also Tristan DuGrey, from Chilton. He changed his name."

"What?" It took a lot to stump Paris, and at that, to receive a succinct response. This news had apparently managed it.

"Yeah, it came as quite a shock to me, too."

"I can't believe I didn't know this," she complained. "Does that mean that he won Chilton Alumni Day?"

I rolled my eyes. "I don't know how many times I've told you that you can't 'win' Alumni Day."

"I guess now we know why he was there," Paris plowed on.

"I'd completely forgotten that we saw him there," I mused.

"I elbowed you when I saw him across the hall and gave you the universal sign language for 'let's make a break for it', but you insisted on standing there and listening to that insipid boy tell us all about his stupid daughter's ballet recital or something, and you were blocking my way."

"It was a children's musical of _Newsies_ , and you owe Brad like three years' worth of common courtesy."

"And by the time we were free, Tristan was already gone," Paris concluded.

"It made me weirdly nervous to interview him today," I admitted.

"You've interviewed presidential candidates, but _this_ one made you nervous?"

"He was probably the last person I would've ever expected to see again. It just threw me for a few minutes. I mean, what are the odds?"

She shrugged again, nonplussed. "We're not talking _Twilight Zone_ or anything, here. You're a reporter. He's a CEO with an apparently-newsworthy company, also based in Hartford. It's not that big of a stretch."

I reached again for my martini. "I guess not. Still, it was so strange for me to be interviewing him. In his office. All professional and grown up. I mean, this is _Tristan_ we're talking about."

"Mm-hmm." She looked at me over the top of her martini glass. "Is he still hot?"

"Paris!" I admonished, chuckling.

"That's a yes, isn't it?"

 _That's a_ hell _yes. Don't even try to deny it._

"I was there to interview him," I reminded her, doing my best at avoiding the question.

"Did he recognize you?"

"Yes." Probably the less said about that, the better.

"I'm not surprised. He had such a huge crush on you."

"Excuse me? If I remember correctly, you were the one who went out with him!"

She rolled her eyes. "Only because you told him he should be dating smarter girls, but _you_ held out on him."

"Hey, wasn't he also your first kiss?" I teased.

Paris gave me a pointed look, but despite herself there was a slight flush to her cheeks that made me grin. "Stop trying to deflect. I'm a happily married woman. You're the single girl who broke Tristan's heart all those years ago. I bet he's been pining for you ever since. And now he's hoping this is his second chance."

Her voice had adopted a saccharine-sweet tone, and I made an exaggerated gagging noise. "He can keep on dreaming."

Anxious to put an end to Paris's gloating look, I pulled my phone from my bag to check the time. "Are you still sure you don't mind joining me for this restaurant thing?"

"Fancy food on your paper's dime? Twist my arm, why don't you."

"We should probably get going. Doors opened at 8. If we leave about now, we'll get there around 9, which should be fine. I just need to see the opening festivities, try the food, and maybe grab a quote from the owner or the chef or somebody."

I called an Uber while we finished our drinks, and we headed outside just in time for our driver to pull up to the curb. It took about fifteen minutes to drive to the restaurant, by which time Paris had adopted a white-knuckled grip on her door handle due to a few questionable traffic maneuvers.

"Nice looking place," she commented as we climbed out.

The exterior was white stone with 'lime' written in black script across the doorway. There were several large windows spanning the length of the building, but the interior was so dimly lit that all we glimpsed were silhouettes. We opened the door and I was pleased to note the absence of any overly-loud music. I hated yelling across the table to my dinner companions. We did hear the hum of the people milling about. The lobby was packed, full of patrons waiting to be seated. Paris and I squeezed our way through the crowd of bodies to make it to the host stand.

"Welcome to Lime. Do you have a reservation?"

"Yes, I'm Rory Gilmore from the Hartford Courant." On second thought, I added, "It could be under Jamie Gonzalez."

The hostess beamed at me. "Ah, Miss Gilmore! Welcome to Lime. We're thrilled to have you, and we hope you enjoy your experience. Tanya will take you to your table. Please let us know if there's anything you need."

A second hostess appeared immediately at my side and led us away from the crowd and into the heart of the restaurant. I tried my best to take in our surroundings without tripping or running into Tanya's back.

It was a fairly small, intimate restaurant. The lighting was dim, emanating from track lighting hanging from the vaulted ceiling as well as from lowlights scattered strategically across the floor. There was a circular bar in the middle of the restaurant with tables spreading outward. All the tables were thick, frosted glass tops that dimly reflected the votive candles arranged artfully on each one. Tables were surrounded by black cushioned chairs. One wall of the restaurant held several booths, also with frosted glass tables and black cushioned bench seats.

Tanya had led us to the back of the room. "Your table, Miss Gilmore. Please have a seat."

Paris and I slid into our large, circular booth. The seat was plush, soft, and comfortable, and made me want to curl my feet up under me. I refrained since that would likely be considered uncouth, especially when one considered the length of my dress.

"Our opening night will include an introduction by Chef Greg, and then a sampling of some of our signature dishes," Tanya explained. "We've taken the liberty of pre-ordering a bottle of wine."

As she spoke, a waiter magically appeared at her side with said bottle. He proceeded to pour a glass for each of us as Tanya continued. "You're just in time. The festivities will begin in a few minutes. Allison will be your server tonight, and she'll be with you shortly. Miss Gilmore, please let us know if there's anything we can do to make your night more enjoyable."

Tanya and the anonymous waiter disappeared, and Paris raised her eyebrows at me from across the table. "Sheesh, _Miss Gilmore_. It seems someone here is trying to impress you."

I rolled my eyes. "They just want to make sure they get a good review."

"Well they must want it bad, because this is a $500 bottle of wine."

I lifted my glass and tasted the wine that cost nearly half of my rent. It was certainly better than the $10.99 cabs that were typically stocked in my cabinets.

I found that I was quite enjoying the atmosphere of the restaurant. It was quiet enough that we could carry on a conversation, and yet not so quiet that I had to feel self-conscious about other diners listening in. There was a fantastic aroma emanating from the kitchen and my stomach growled in anticipation.

As promised, it didn't take long before a man in a white coat who I assumed to be Chef Greg began to make his way from the kitchen to the bar, greeting diners along the way. I refilled my wine glass and glanced at Paris, who smiled and nodded for me to fill hers too. The buzz of conversation died down as the rest of the patrons turned to face the chef.

"Welcome to Lime!" His voice carried well and the rest of the stray chatter quieted so that he was the focus of attention. "I'm Greg Lorren, Head Chef, and all of us here at Lime would like to thank you for coming out tonight. This place has been a dream for years, and tonight it's finally becoming reality. Lime is a truly unique, innovative restaurant that will take the concept of 'green', eco-friendly dining to the next level. This restaurant is 100% self-sufficient, and our mission is to provide delicious food with a completely neutral carbon footprint."

I let my eyes wander over the tables as Chef Greg continued his speech. The majority of the patrons were thirty- and forty-somethings, with the occasional couple who were upward in age. At one of the tables close to the bar, a couple in their late-twenties sat next to each other at the same side of the table. The man had his arm around the woman, his hand playing in her long blonde hair, and he was whispering into her ear. She smiled and blushed, keeping her head turned into his chest.

At the next table over, a couple held hands over the table, keeping their full attention turned toward the bar where Greg was speaking. There were a handful of people seated around the bar. As my gaze swept over them, I did a double-take on the man seated nearest Chef Greg.

He was leaning against the bar with a drink in one hand, and his other swept through his hair as I watched. He wore grey trousers with a simple black shirt, untucked, with the top two buttons undone and sleeves rolled to his elbows. He was watching Greg intently, but when my gaze travelled up to his face, he turned toward me and I found myself staring into the azure eyes of Tristan DuGrey. Or rather, Donnel.

His eyes had met mine like he knew what he was looking for. For the second time in a day, he was the last person I'd been expecting to see, and I blamed my surprise for my inability to look away. Tristan held my gaze for the space of several heartbeats before he winked at me and turned his attention back to Greg.

 _What the hell is he doing here?_

Not that I cared that he was here, I reminded myself quickly.

Taking a deep breath, I tried to focus on Chef Greg's description of the night's culinary delights. Apparently they only used organic, locally-grown ingredients. He explained that the majority of the dishes were vegan or vegetarian, and that he and his staff dedicated time to seeking the best local produce while it was fresh, and what wasn't cooked while fresh was preserved for later seasons. As he concluded his introduction, he exited the front of the house to the sound of applause. At the same time, waiters poured out from the kitchen carrying trays of food. A petite, brunette girl with a pixie cut arrived in front of our table.

"Good evening, I'm Alison, and I'll be your server tonight. I'd like to present tonight's first course: Tomato, Arugula, and Mushroom Flatbread with white truffle oil." She set the flatbread on the table between us and my mouth immediately began to water. "I've also brought you some water. Can I get you anything else to drink?"

"I'm fine with water, thank you."

 _And my $500 wine._

"Me too," Paris agreed.

I struggled to hold myself back from the flatbread until Allison finished setting our plates in front of us. It looked and smelled amazing. I managed to pull my eyes away from the food to look at her when she spoke again.

"Miss Gilmore, the chef and the owner will both be stopping by your table to say hello tonight. Is there anything else you need right now?"

I shook my head, eyeing Paris with jealousy as she bit into a slice and closed her eyes in bliss. "No, thank you, I think we're good."

"Alright, well please let us know."

I eagerly dug in to the food. It tasted even more amazing than it looked and smelled. Paris and I devoured the entire thing, and I put away another whole glass of wine, by the time the second course arrived. We cleared the second plate with just as much vigor.

Between my earlier martini and two and a half glasses of wine, I was feeling very pleasant. Chef Greg stopped by for a brief interview and further explanation of Lime's philosophy. By the time he left the table I had a new appreciation for local food, and the story of the opening was already writing itself in my mind.

"That's it," I sighed, sinking back into the cushions of the booth. "We're coming here every week for the rest of our lives."

"Or more than that," Paris agreed. "You know, when we're not traveling."

"By this time next year, we'll be fifty pounds heavier."

"Speak for yourself. I know how to control myself. You ate more than half of the spread."

"You were just too slow."

"Just as well. I don't think I could eat another bite."

Paris's comment came right as Allison came by to drop off a tray containing two of the most scrumptious-looking fruit tarts I'd ever seen in my life.

"Alright, maybe just one bite," she amended.

"Mmm, more for me," I told her as I scooped a tart onto my plate.

"That seems to be a common sentiment when it comes to Greg's food."

My head snapped up at the sound of the familiar voice and I found Tristan grinning down at me.

"The man has a gift," I agreed. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Hello, Paris," he greeted cordially. "It's been a long time. How have you been?"

"Tristan," she acknowledged, gripping his hand. "I'm well, thanks. And it seems you've been doing well for yourself."

"I've done okay. You don't mind, do you?" he asked as he slid into the booth next to me. The look in his eyes broadcast very clearly that he wouldn't care if I did.

"What are you doing here?" I demanded again.

"I understand you're here to document the evening for the Hartford Courant."

"So you're stalking me now?"

He smirked. "Appealing as that may sound, no. I didn't know you would be here; it's another happy accident. In fact, I'd thought that a Ms. Gonzalez was going to be covering tonight."

"How did you know anyone from the Courant would be here, let alone who it would be?"

"I was briefed. This is my restaurant."

 _Of COURSE it is._

I turned my attention back to the plate in front of me, deciding the fruit tart was an easier temptation to deal with at the moment than Tristan's teasing smirk. I'd be damned if I let him see how he affected me. From the corner of my eye, I saw Allison approach the table again to check on us.

"How is everything? Are you -" She broke off when she recognized Tristan. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Donnel. I didn't mean to interrupt. I'll leave you to your interview."

Tristan nodded his thanks to the server, then made himself comfortable. His arm brushed my shoulders briefly as he stretched it out along the back of the booth. He was sitting so close that our thighs were nearly touching, and he directed his question across the table to Paris. "So, what do you think of Lime?"

"Impressive," Paris granted. "But then again, your staff have been plying us with delicious food and expensive drinks all evening."

"Glad to hear it."

I couldn't help but chime in, in effort to wipe the smug smirk off his face. "I hope you don't think that the fancy bottle of wine will win you any favor in the review."

"Of course not. I expect nothing but the honest truth, especially from Rory Gilmore." He strived for an innocent look, but fell short of the mark.

"I do admire the concept," I admitted. "How exactly do you plan to maintain a neutral carbon footprint?"

"Purchasing locally-grown food is a major part of that. I have a great partner in Greg. He's developed some fantastic seasonal menus, and with the right ingredients, he can make even the simplest dishes into something sensational." He nodded toward my plate. "Try your fruit tart."

I had been dying to bite into it. I didn't want it to seem like I was just following his direction, but… oh, to hell with it. I could only take so much temptation before I gave in. I lifted the delicate pastry cup and took a bite as gracefully as I could manage.

The flaky pastry melted in my mouth, mingling with the thick vanilla custard, and cranberries burst in my mouth. I closed my eyes and appreciated the decadent flavors flooding my senses. I savored the taste, and then decided that I couldn't resist one more bite.

When I turned back to face Tristan, his gaze quickly flew up to meet my eyes. He cleared his throat and gestured at the tart. "Case in point."

I flipped the switch on my recorder and elicited a few quotes for my story, all the while continuing to enjoy my dessert. When I'd finished the brief interview, Paris jumped into her own.

"So, Tristan," she asked. "Is this the only restaurant you own?"

"Yes. It's my first."

"And why open a restaurant?"

"Diversification is key for any business." He shrugged, then grinned. "Plus, I thought it would be fun."

Allison came by to clear our plates and I requested the check, eager to be out of range of Tristan. Or at least not within touching distance.

"The bill won't be necessary, Allison," Tristan said.

I shook my head. "Yes, it will. The paper will pay for it."

"It's on the house."

"Thank you, but really, I insist. Otherwise, I'd have to acknowledge in the article that the meal was gratis, and I'd rather not. Please. Let the paper cover it."

"Fine, fine." He held up his hands in surrender, but made a show of being displeased about it. "Far be it for me to argue with you."

Paris snorted. When we both turned to her, she gave us an incredulous look. "Come on. Since when have the two of you not thrived off a good argument? When it's with each other, it's all the better."

I rolled my eyes and didn't dignify the comment with a retort. Although I was decidedly not looking at him, I could've sworn I saw Tristan's lips twitch in amusement.

"What are you ladies up to for the rest of your evening?" he asked.

"Nothing," Paris proclaimed quickly. Too quickly.

"I need to stay here for awhile longer and shake some hands, but I would be honored if you'd join me for a drink afterward." He put on his most charming smile and focused all his charismatic powers on Paris.

She locked eyes with me and I could see her wicked intentions written all over her face.

 _Uh-oh. Divert! Divert!_

"No!" I exclaimed. Tristan turned to me and raised his brow in amusement, and I realized that had come out louder than I'd intended. "I'm sorry. I mean, I can't. I have plans. Rats."

Paris's face contorted in a look of overtheatricized confusion. "No, you don't. You told me earlier that you were going to go straight home and watch The Great British Baking Show."

Tristan threw his hands over his heart. "Are you telling me that I don't rate above watching PBS on a Friday night? I'm wounded."

I gave him my best withering stare, then turned it on Paris, frantically trying to telepathically indicate that she should cut it out immediately.

"We'd love to get a drink later. Wouldn't we, Rory?"

Ignoring my look of dismay, Tristan rose from the booth with a grin. "I'll look forward to it. I'll come by the table as soon as I'm done with business. Please excuse me."

I didn't bother waiting for Tristan to be out of hearing range before I pounced on Paris. "What are you doing?"

"Hey, it's been a long week, and I'm so going to enjoy this."

"What?"

"Watching Tristan try to get under your skin." She grinned. "Or into your pants."

"I can't believe you said we'd go out with him."

"Oh come on. It might be fun. What's the worst that could happen?"

I didn't answer. Instead, I downed the last of the wine in my glass and reached again for the bottle.

* * *

 **A/N:** I know I said AYITL doesn't exist here, and it doesn't, but I had to throw in a small tidbit. I was thinking about timeline, and the fact that in my world, they would've had their 10-year high school reunion already, and I was wondering whether Rory and Paris would've gone… and then I remembered Alumni Day. I wasn't a fan of the way that Paris reacted to seeing Tristan in AYITL, so I've altered my own reality a bit. ;-)


	4. The Morning After

**Master of My Domain**

 **Disclaimer:** Gilmore Girls was created by ASP and is property of Warner Bros Television/Hofflund Polone/Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **A/N:** Thank you for reading, reviewing, favoriting, and following!

 **Chapter 4 – The Morning After**

I awoke gradually, rising to consciousness from a deep sleep. Even with my eyes still closed, I could sense the light behind my eyelids. My head was buzzing and I knew that as soon as I moved, it would turn into a splitting headache. Deciding to delay the inevitable, I kept my eyes closed, trying to sink further into the comfort of my bed.

Which somehow seemed a little more comfortable than usual. Pieces of reality were slowly drifting into my awareness. I felt as if I were lying on a cloud, wrapped in warmth and sunshine, covered in fluffy down. I shifted, enjoying the sensation of the silky-soft sheets caressing my skin.

 _These are not my sheets…_

 _This is not my bed._

My eyes flew open and I immediately brought a hand up to shield them from the blinding sunlight. I'd been right about the headache, but that concern took a backseat to the realization that I was in a strange place. In a strange _bed_ , no less.

In horror-movie-slow-motion, I turned my head, afraid of what I'd find on the other side of the large bed, but let out a sigh of relief when I saw that I was alone. A quick peek under the covers revealed that I was clothed in a large tshirt, and beneath that, my familiar bra and panties.

 _Disconcerting to say the least, because I don't recognize the shirt. But all things considered, I suppose it could be worse._

I slid my feet to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, cautiously peering at my surroundings. Light flooded the unfamiliar room from two huge windows on the wall I faced, covered only with thin, gauzy curtains. I was about twenty stories above downtown Hartford.

 _Oh my god. I'm in Tristan's apartment building._

Cataloguing the events of the previous evening, I began my attempt to piece them together. I remembered meeting Paris, attending the opening of Lime, and talking to Tristan. After leaving the restaurant, Paris, Tristan, and I had gone to One Eleven, a posh bar downtown. I remembered my first drink there, and I remembered Tristan ordering our next round.

Paris and I, having polished off a martini each and a whole bottle of wine before the two extra rounds, were both feeling very buzzed. So of course, when we couldn't find an Uber and Tristan said his apartment was only a few blocks away, we hadn't hesitated to dash out into the chilly night. He'd promised that once we got here, his driver could take us home.

He'd bribed us by promising a glimpse of his signed copy of The Final Days, though I noted distrustfully that I had no recollection of having seen it. Could that be due to the alcohol-induced haze that clouded my memory? I wasn't sure that I'd put it past him to lie about its existence, either.

 _Forget about the damn book, Rory! You woke up IN HIS BED. How did this happen? Think! Think!_

Try as I might to fight through the haze, I had absolutely no recollection of how I'd ended up here. The bedroom was unfamiliar. An open door on the other side of the room led into a sizeable bathroom. I cautiously tiptoed inside, noting a colossal shower, a huge spa tub that could no doubt hold at least two and a half people, and his and hers vanities. I had watched enough HGTV in my life to know that the bathroom's sprawling quartz countertops alone probably cost more than what I paid for several months' rent.

I paused in front of the mirror upon glimpsing my reflection to run my fingers through my hair and wipe the last traces of mascara from under my eyes. Reentering the bedroom, I glanced warily at the enormous, exquisitely dressed bed.

 _Had we…?_

No. No way. Not within 24 hours of meeting him again. Not even if I'd consumed all the alcohol in the state. I couldn't possibly have fooled around with Tristan DuGrey.

 _But maybe with Tristan Donnel?_

I slammed the door on that line of thinking. I needed to talk to Paris. Hopefully she could help shed some light on last night's events.

 _Step One: Find phone. Call for help._

After a fruitless search of the bedroom, bathroom, and the walk-in closet that was the size of my living room, I tentatively stepped out of the room and found myself facing an expansive open floor plan with vaulted ceilings that emphasized the massive scale of the space. I felt a modicum of relief, noting that this area, at least, was familiar.

I remembered being reluctantly impressed when Tristan had opened the door to let us in, having half-expected a bachelor pad with a black leather couch, enormous television, and dirty socks on multiple surfaces.

Once again, Tristan had surprised me. The decor was sparse and modern, bearing an undeniable similarity to Donnel Enterprises' office. He must've used the same interior decorator. Though there was indeed a vague bachelor-y vibe, the space was pristine and orderly. Instead of black leather, there was a huge grey sectional that dominated the living room, separating the space from the kitchen. In front of the couch, a fireplace stood in place of a television, surrounded by a full wall of shelves crammed with books.

As I tentatively began to cross the room, the hardwood was chilly under my bare feet, and I had a moment in which I envisioned curling up on that inviting sofa with one of those books, and snuggling in front of the fire.

 _Snuggling? In Tristan's apartment? Snap out it!_

Luckily, the vision evaporated when I spotted my target - my purse sat on the kitchen island. I perched on a bar stool in front of it while I dug for my cell phone. As my hand grasped my phone, I saw a note sprawled on plain white paper stuck under a corner of my bag.

 _ **At the gym. Coffee next to the toaster.**_

– _ **TD**_

My mind grappled with the dilemma of prioritization for only a brief moment before I decided to pour myself a cup of coffee before calling Paris. I searched the cabinets and pulled out a white mug. The coffee smelled delicious, and I didn't wait for it to cool before taking my first sip. It wasn't the first time, nor would it be the last time I'd make the same mistake.

I immediately spat it back out into my cup. I spared a few seconds to blow on it and tentatively took another sip as soon as I could, allowing myself a quiet sigh of contentment.

As the magical nectar warmed my solar plexus, the splitting pain in my head dulled to nothing more than an ache. I hit speed dial on my phone and waited for three rings before Paris answered.

"Damn that $500 bottle of wine," she grumbled as a greeting.

"Agreed."

"So did you bag the billionaire?"

"No!" I exclaimed loudly, then winced as my left temple throbbed in protest.

"Okay, first of all, no yelling or I'm hanging up. Second, I was kidding."

"I just woke up in a strange bed with a killer hangover. Please don't kid with me right now."

"What?" she demanded. "Wait, you're still there? _Did_ you actually bag the billionaire?"

I groaned. "What on earth happened last night?"

"You don't remember?"

"I remember walking back to Tristan's place. I remember that he mentioned an autographed copy of The Final Days - by both Woodward _and_ Bernstein. I don't remember seeing it, though; did we?"

"No. Damn. Since you're still there, see if you can find it, would you? Text me a picture."

I pressed my hand over my eyes, willing myself to focus. "Okay, we need to forget about the book, and concentrate. I remember that Tristan's driver was going to bring you home first, and then come back for me, since we live in opposite directions. I have no idea _why_ we thought that was a good idea."

"Yeah, we sort of violated the whole 'leave no woman behind' code, didn't we? Sorry about that."

I groaned. "I cannot believe this."

"Did you really sleep with him?"

"No!" I cried again, exasperated. But despite my protestation, my brain catalogued the evidence.

I was wearing a man's t-shirt and didn't know where my dress was. I had woken up _in his bed_. Of course we both knew that I would never go so far as to sleep with him. But just because we hadn't slept together didn't mean that there hadn't been _other things_. The covers had been a mess, but maybe that was just because Tristan was a slob and never made the bed. Although if the rest of his apartment was any indication, I doubted that was the case.

Unbidden, a vision of Tristan insinuated itself in my mind's eye. Last night, at the bar, Paris had been recounting an anecdote about one of the hapless publicists unlucky enough to work for her. I'd taken a sip of my Manhattan -

 _Ugh. So many mixed liquors. Rookie mistake, Gilmore._

\- and I'd caught Tristan looking at me out of the corner of my eye. My gaze was drawn to his mouth as he sipped his own drink, and when he brought the glass away from his mouth, his lips curved in a smirk when he caught me staring. At that moment, I was bumped into from behind, and heard a slurred "Sorry" from the guy who'd jostled me.

Tristan's arm had flown around my waist to steady me. I felt his warm hand on my hip, albeit briefly, and he'd bent his head to speak against my ear. "Whoa. I've got you."

I swallowed hard. I dragged myself back to the present, my fingers tightening on the phone.

"Nothing happened." I was proud that I sounded more certain than I felt.

"You were sitting at the breakfast bar drinking water when I left. So, think - what happened after that?"

"I'm not -" I broke off, distracted by the sound of the door opening behind me. I spun around just in time to see Tristan enter, and swore under my breath.

"What? _Did_ you?" Paris paused on the other end of the line, then spoke again with in a conspiratorial whisper. "How was he?"

Tristan closed the door behind him and tossed his keys onto a side table. He wore a pair of black basketball shorts and a dark gray tank top that left _very_ little to the imagination. I could've counted the muscles of his washboard abs if I cared to.

 _Which you don't!_

"Paris, I have to go." I hung up without waiting for a reply.

He was taking his time in letting his eyes roam down my legs, and I tugged self-consciously at the hem of the t-shirt, which hit at mid-thigh.

"Good…" He made a show of looking at his watch. "Morning. Sleeping Beauty."

I crossed my arms over my chest. "And who do you think you are? Prince Charming?"

He gave a wolfish grin. "Hardly."

Tristan moved to the kitchen and I followed wordlessly, standing on the opposite side of the island as he pulled a pitcher of water from the fridge. "Did you see my note?"

I gave him a sarcastic smile and pointed at the coffee cup in my hands, taking another sip while he downed a glass of water. I kept my eyes glued to him, desperately searching for any hint that could clue me in. I couldn't help but notice him lick his lips as he poured himself a second glass.

 _How is it possible that I can't remember where that tongue has or has not been?_

I refused to come out and ask him about last night. I was 95% certain that absolutely nothing had happened between us, but I was determined not to let him see how much that remaining 5% was killing me.

He had barely taken his gaze off of me, either, and I watched as it turned from appreciative to assessing. We both stood in silence for a few moments longer while the tension built. An amused spark lit in Tristan's eyes and he braced himself on his forearms, leaning toward me across the kitchen island.

"So did you have a good time last night?" His tone was carefully neutral, ensuring I couldn't ascertain any useful information.

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Did you?"

"You bet I did." His voice took on a deeper register, and I detected the unmistakable notes of masculine satisfaction. A slow grin spread across his face, and my throat tightened with apprehension.

 _Oh God, I did it, didn't I? I must've at least kissed him or something. I knew it! Damn him and his sexy smirk! Damn his tailored pants and stupid, perfect ass!_

I could feel color rising in my cheeks. Mixed in with the embarrassment, frustration, and dismay, a small part of me felt disappointed; not at the fact something had happened, but that I couldn't even remember it. I'd bet it was good.

"I asked you first," he reminded me, snapping my attention back to reality.

The best response I could muster was to shrug noncommittally.

"Oh, come on," he encouraged. "You know you had fun."

"How do you know?" I demanded irritably. I still wasn't completely sure, and I wanted to hear him admit it.

His self-satisfied smirk didn't waver. "Trust me. I know."

I refused to be distracted by the sexiness that this man seemed to effortlessly radiate. He was infuriating, and he would not make me forget that. I once again silently cursed the heat that flushed my face.

"You may think you know, but I don't think you do know." I winced and fought the urge to slap my palm to my forehead while I tore my eyes away from him.

 _Come on, Rory. Is something resembling a real sentence too much to ask for?!_

"I may know you better than you think I do," he murmured. Apparently the loss of my eye contact was not to his liking, and he circled the counter to stand in front of me. "I've learned many interesting things about you in the past twenty-four hours."

"Such as?" A moment after I asked the question, with a challenge in my tone, I considered the fact that maybe I didn't want to know. Too late.

"Such as, you went to Yale, although we missed each other by a couple of years. You maintained a position at the Yale Daily News for all four years you were there, save for the semester that you weren't taking classes, and you served a full term as Editor. You followed Obama's campaign trail straight out of college, and made a name for yourself among journalists twice your age. After the election, you could have had your pick of desks, including the Post or the Times, yet you chose the Hartford Courant."

I fought to not show any surprise. He'd obviously looked me up. All of the facts he'd spouted could easily be found online, except the part about my lost semester. What was his source?

"Congratulations on your mastery of Google," I commended dryly, then raised an eyebrow at him in challenge. "What else?"

He hesitated, dragging his eyes down my body again, and then pulling them back up as if he had all day. "You have a birthmark on your - Ouch!"

I shook my hand vigorously after my fist collided with the hard muscle of his shoulder. "You jerk! You're toying with me. I don't have any birthmarks!"

"I figured I had about a 30% chance, so I went for it. Learn something new every day." He shrugged unapologetically. "When I realized that you obviously didn't remember anything after you passed out on the couch, I couldn't help myself."

"I knew nothing happened," I muttered.

"Give me some credit," he scoffed. "Unconscious girls aren't really my thing."

"Wait." I narrowed my eyes at him, pulling at the t-shirt I wore as evidence. "If I passed out on the couch, how did I change my clothes?"

He blinked at me and gave a slow, unrepentant smile.

"I'm never drinking again."

"Excuse me for trying to be a gracious host. Was I supposed to let you sleep on the couch, and then wake up with a crick in your neck that would make the hangover that much worse?"

"You don't look any worse for the wear."

"Thanks," he answered cockily. "But why would I?"

My eyes widened at his insinuation. "Where did you sleep?"

"In my bed, of course."

I buried my face in my hands to muffle my most pitiful groan. Then I raised my eyes to glare at him again, throwing my arms wide to indicate the gargantuan apartment. "You cannot honestly tell me that you don't have at least one spare bed in this place."

"But my bed is the most comfortable."

 _Gotta admit, he's surely not wrong._

"Not only did you undress me and put me to bed, but then you actually crawled in right after me?"

"I assure you, I was a perfect gentleman." His face didn't match his words, and I gave him a look that clearly said I didn't believe him. "Hey, I didn't know about the lack of birthmarks, remember?"

Without bothering to answer, since he was obviously enjoying toying with me a little too much, I simply turned on my heel and strode briskly back toward the bedroom. I was not retreating, I assured myself. Just giving us both some space before I decked him again.

"Perfect gentleman, my ass," I grumbled.

"Which is very fine, by the way!" Tristan called. I didn't need to look back to see the grin I knew he wore.


	5. Post-Mortems

**Master of My Domain**

 **Disclaimer:** Gilmore Girls was created by ASP and is property of Warner Bros Television/Hofflund Polone/Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **A/N:** A bit of a longer chapter this time. ;-)

 **Chapter 5 – Post-Mortems**

I found my dress hanging on the back of the closet door. After changing my clothes and somewhat taming my hair, I opened the bathroom door to find Tristan lounging on his bed. He'd straightened the covers and sat on top of them with his legs stretched in front of him, crossed at the ankles, with his back against the headboard. He was the picture of ease. And he was shirtless.

It took me longer than it should have to avert my eyes, and I watched his abdomen tighten as he gracefully rose to his feet. Unfortunately, my perusal didn't go unnoticed. Tristan stopped in front of me, standing just inside my personal space, and smirked down at me.

"I need a shower. Care to join me?"

I forced myself to look up into his eyes, and nowhere else. "I know a man of your means can afford a good therapist, so I'm concerned that you're still suffering from delusions. I think it's time to shop around for a new shrink."

He chuckled. "There's a difference between delusion and fantasy, Mary."

"Don't call me that."

"Don't leave yet," he countered. With that, he stepped around me and closed the bathroom door behind him.

Alone in the bedroom, I glanced around, feeling strangely self-conscious and unsure of what to do with myself. I heard the shower running, and became preoccupied with a vision of Tristan's bare chest, slick with water this time, and maybe with a trail of soap suds slipping downward, past the perfectly-defined V, and then down to…

 _Stop! Halt! Don't go there, Gilmore!_

I hightailed it out of the bedroom and nearly slammed the door behind me. As I sat once more at the kitchen island, I tried to forcibly think about anything other than the wet, naked body behind the bathroom door. Being fully dressed in my own clothes had made me feel slightly better after my less-than-stellar morning, and I could almost trick myself into believing that I had the situation under control.

 _Oh, who am I kidding?_

Tristan had me at a clear disadvantage this morning, and he knew it. And I daresay he even liked it. I drummed my fingers on the quartz countertop while I contemplated my options. He'd instructed me not to leave yet, so of course I was tempted to do it anyway just to defy him. He may be able to boss around his hundreds - or was it thousands? - of employees, but not me. I was a strong, independent woman, and I'd leave whenever I damn well pleased.

 _Yep. Any second now._

I took another sip of coffee and decided that it, too, should factor into my Should I Stay or Should I Go assessment.

 _If I go, there will be trouble…_

Leaving before finishing my coffee would be a crime, since I felt fairly comfortable in labeling it one of the best dark roasts I'd ever tasted. No doubt it was obscenely expensive.

 _And if I stay it will be double…_

What had he wanted me to stick around for, anyway? Surely our little reunion had run its course last night. No good could come of this.

Before I could come to a conclusion on the best course of action, I was startled by the sound of a door opening behind me. I spun expecting to see Tristan coming out of the bedroom, but instead found a strange woman entering the apartment. She smiled warmly at me as she locked the door behind her.

"Um, hello," I stammered.

"Hello, Miss." The woman's blond hair was pulled into a bun and she looked to be in her late forties, or possibly early fifties. "Would you like something to eat?"

Who was this woman, and what the hell was going on?

Before I had a chance to worry too much about how to respond, Tristan emerged, freshly showered, shaved, and looking as handsome as ever. I couldn't help but feel a little resentful of his effortless good looks, particularly as I sat in a day-old dress, slept-in hair, and hastily washed-off makeup.

He addressed the woman as he came to stand beside my seat. "No thank you, Mrs. Vale. Brunch won't be necessary today. Actually, would you excuse us, please?"

"Of course, Mr. Donnel." She obligingly closed the door softly behind her.

I looked up at Tristan with what was undoubtedly a bewildered expression. "Who was that?"

"That was Mrs. Vale," he offered briefly.

"Yes, I got that."

"You asked."

"Who is Mrs. Vale, and why did she offer me food?"

"She's my employee, and that's part of her job."

Trying to get information from Tristan Donnel was like trying to move mountains; futile, but you can't help but try with the knowledge that if and when you succeed, you'll have accomplished something monumental.

"What is Mrs. Vale's job, exactly?" I pressed.

Tristan shrugged. "She assists with matters pertaining to my home."

"Including?"

"She cooks, she cleans, she takes care of the bills."

"She's your housekeeper."

"She's my Director of Domestic Affairs."

I laughed. "She's Tristan Donnel's maid and personal chef."

"She is a valued member of my staff, and is compensated as such."

"Including on days like today, when all she does is show up before being sent home? You didn't have to send her away, by the way."

"She hasn't gone home."

I looked at him incredulously. "Please tell me you don't have her just stand out in the hall."

"Of course not. That would be far too undignified for a woman of her position." Despite his teasing words, I could tell that he honestly respected her, and I was comforted by the knowledge. The warmth in his voice betrayed his true feelings for the woman, and the part of me that had been balking at the idea that he had a servant began to relax.

"What, then? She's gone to fetch your dry cleaning?"

The humor in his eyes told me I'd touched on another facet of Mrs. Vale's job description, but he shook his head. "I suspect she's gone across the hall to tidy my office. She likes to chastise me when I fail to keep it orderly."

"Across the hall?" I repeated dumbly. I took in the vast expanse of the apartment we stood in, including a hallway that led to portions I hadn't yet seen. If he also had an office across the hall, I could guess what that meant. "You own the whole floor."

"Actually, I own the whole building. But yes, I live on this floor."

"Of course you do."

"What's the problem?"

"No problem," I conceded, because I really shouldn't have been surprised. "I think it's past time for me to leave."

I stood and made a motion to gather my bag, but Tristan stepped in front of me. "Why?"

"It's almost noon. You're a busy man, I'm sure you have things to do and places to be."

"Nothing pressing."

"Call Mrs. Vale back in, then. I'm sure she'd be happy to make you a sandwich. If you ask nicely, she may even cut off the crusts."

"What do you have going on today?" Sadly for me, he had decided to ignore my taunting.

"I have a story to write. Some big-wig exec is holding a press conference on Monday."

Tristan's eyes lit with interest. "What are you going to write about me?"

"I'm not going to tell you that," I scoffed.

"Why not?"

"Because I'm a professional."

"If you don't tell me about what you're going to write, how am I going to know whether you were the right reporter for the interview? At least give me a chance to preview it, so I can help with revisions to make it better."

Luckily for him, I could tell that he was kidding. It was all that saved him from being decked again.

"So many things about that statement are infuriating."

"Tell me," he asked again, this time turning the full force of his smile and piercing eyes upon me.

 _Serious journalists are not swayed by attractive men. Serious journalists are not swayed by attractive men._

Silently repeating my mantra, I attempted to change the subject with a question I had been pondering while I drafted the article yesterday. "Why Donnel?"

"What?" He feigned ignorance, but I knew that he understood what I was asking. I also didn't appreciate the fact that he was going to make me spell it out for him, just because he knew he could.

"Why did you choose the name Donnel when you created your company?"

"This is still off the record?"

"Yes."

He smiled innocently. "Did you know that Donnel means 'world leader'?"

I laughed and shook my head at his audacity. "Seriously? My, don't you think highly of yourself."

"It's also an old family name, changed and diluted since my ancestors immigrated from Ireland." He shrugged. "I thought it had a nice ring to it."

"Yeah, sure." I shook my head in amusement. "Assuming that were going in the story, I think some extra fact-checking would be in order."

"It was off the record," he asserted sharply.

"Of course."

"Rory." He narrowed his eyes in warning.

"Don't worry, your massive ego isn't newsworthy." I reached around him to grab my bag off the counter, brushing against the solidness of his body.

"You don't have to leave," he insisted.

"Yes, I do."

"You slept with me and you're not even going to stay for breakfast?"

I pointed an accusatory finger at him. "I did not sleep with you. And breakfast is long over."

"Then we'll go out to lunch." He followed me around the apartment as I searched for my shoes, which I found behind the couch.

"I'm not going to lunch with you," I told him as I slipped on my heels. I began to lose my balance and Tristan reached out to cup my elbow, steadying me while I pulled on my other shoe.

"Fine then. Go home, change your clothes, get comfortable, and then you can join me for dinner."

"No lunch, no dinner," I told him sternly.

"No meals, then. You're right, we've been there, done that. How about a movie? Dancing? Long walk on the beach?"

I laughed and shook my head in disbelief. "No, none of that."

"I suppose if you insist, we could go for drinks. That didn't turn out so bad the last time."

"No," I said flatly. I trusted the stern look in my eyes to be enough to make up for my non-loquacious response. I turned resolutely and walked to the door.

"Rory?"

I spun to face him with my hand on the door handle, and was surprised at how close he stood. I forced myself to stand my ground, but had to tilt my head back to look up at him. "What?"

He grinned down at me, and at such a close range his smile seemed to have more power. I blinked when I found that I was staring at his lips, and made an effort to look away. I reminded myself that it was important that I leave, and soon.

"What are you going to write?" he asked again.

"Tristan, do you have a dollar?"

I watched confusion cloud his already darkened eyes. "Yes. I have quite a few."

"Then you can buy a paper on Monday, and read about it then." With a smile, I closed the door behind me.

I found myself in a hallway that matched the décor of the apartment. Directly across from the door I'd just shut in Tristan's face was the door to what I assumed was his home office. To my left was the elevator, and it opened immediately when I pressed the call button.

I leaned against the wall of the elevator while I watched the numbers tick backward from the 22nd floor. It descended surprisingly quickly without any other stops, and when I stepped out I realized why. It appeared to be for private use.

The spacious lobby looked more like the lobby of an upscale hotel than any apartment building I'd ever lived in, but then again, what I paid in rent surely didn't warrant such luxury. No sooner had I taken three steps off the elevator than I was approached by a sharply dressed man who I assumed to be a concierge of the building.

"Miss Gilmore?" he questioned.

"Yes?"

"I've been asked to escort you to your driver."

I raised my eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

"Your driver is waiting outside."

"My driver?"

The man smiled patiently. "Mr. Donnel has assigned a driver to take you wherever you wish."

He gestured for me to accompany him to the doors, and I followed complacently even while I argued. "A driver really won't be necessary."

"Mr. Donnel was quite clear," the concierge stated politely but firmly.

"Honestly, I can just call a taxi or something," I insisted.

"I'm afraid Mr. Donnel has insisted." He gestured toward a sleek black car waiting by the curb, and the man who I presumed to be the driver smiled and opened the back door.

"Hello, Miss Gilmore." The driver gestured for me to enter the car. I stared back and forth between the two men wordlessly.

 _Damn it, Tristan._

He kept catching me off-guard, something I was neither accustomed to nor fond of. As much as I wanted to turn down the offer and find my own way home, I couldn't help but admit that this was a convenient option. My car was still parked outside Elliot's where I'd left it the night before.

After a few seconds of deliberation on the sidewalk, I decided that it wasn't worth the petulant gesture of refusing just to salvage my sense of independence.

"Thank you," I muttered to both men. I reluctantly slid into the backseat of the car and it was closed gently behind me. I gave the driver the address to Elliot's, and spared one last glance up at the windows of the 22nd floor as the car pulled away from the curb.

. . . . .

"WHAT ABOUT THAT one explosion? Even you have to admit, it was a pretty good explosion."

I rolled my eyes to the ceiling, praying to the Powers-That-Be for patience. "Which explosion?"

"You know, that one towards the middle, when Shia LaBeouf and the model were running from the Decepticons."

"Oh yes, _that_ one." I rolled my eyes.

It was Sunday afternoon, and unfortunately for me my mother hadn't forgotten about our movie date. As soon as the credits rolled, she had begun trying to convince me that I'd just seen an exceptional feat of filmmaking. Fifteen minutes later, I remained entirely unconvinced. My saving grace came in the form of muffled voices and footsteps on the porch moments before the front door opened.

"Hallelujah," I muttered.

"You'll get a reprieve, but don't think we're done with this. I have so many more things to talk about. Like how can the autobots scale the walls of buildings? They're so big and bulky, you'd think that gravity would slow them down."

"Out of everything that we're supposed to take at face value in that movie, _that_ is what you have issues with?"

We were interrupted by my little brother racing across the foyer, having just returned home with Luke. "Rowy! Rowy!"

"I thought you were going to work with him on that," I muttered to my mom.

"Work on what, Rowy?" she laughed.

"Hi there, Noah!" I scooped him up, tickling his sides as he squealed with laughter.

"Hey Rory," Luke called. "How was movie night?"

I shot a glance back at my mom, who was still grinning, no doubt feeling exceedingly proud of herself for managing to wrangle me into this in the first place. I was spared from trying to respond to Luke's question politely when she answered for me.

"It was awesome!" she asserted enthusiastically, giving me a look that dared me to say otherwise. "Best movie ever, right, hun? Especially that one explosion."

I decided to drop it, and instead focused my attention on Noah, depositing him on the couch next to me with an exaggerated swinging motion, earning myself more squeals of delight. He sat there contently for no longer than five seconds before he jumped up and pulled on my hand. "Rowy! Come play!"

I acquiesced, coming to sit with him on the floor where he was set up with his trucks. He deliberated for a few moments before handing me a red dump-truck.

"Wow, lucky girl," my mom noted, looking down at us from the couch. "That one is sometimes his favorite."

"Thank you," I acknowledged, and participated in the play by rolling my truck around the floor around us. I looked back up at my mom. "Sometimes his favorite?"

"Yeah, only sometimes. The red dump truck and the green Jeep seem to duke it out for his affections. As far as I've been able to tell, the red dump truck tends to be his favorite on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and national holidays, or something."

"Here," Noah said, thrusting another car into my hand. He bumped his two together in a tiny imitation of a fender-bender, but I chose not to collide mine. Insurance premiums were expensive enough without an accident history.

Luke retreated to the kitchen, banging and chopping and roasting or whatever it is you do to prepare a pot pie, while my mom, Noah, and I hung out in the living room.

"We haven't talked much about work recently," Lorelai observed. "Anything exciting going on there?"

"I don't know what I did to fall into David's good graces, but I've gotten pretty lucky with some cool assignments recently."

"Oh yeah? Anything else the New York Times is going to poach?"

"It's not exactly 'poaching'," I corrected. "But I guess we'll have to wait till tomorrow morning to find out. My latest story has been embargoed until then."

"Ooh, fancy."

"Actually, you kind of know the subject of the story."

"I do? Wow, I must be even cooler than I thought I was."

"Do you remember that guy Tristan DuGrey, from Chilton?"

"Okay, hun. I know that I haven't aged a day, which is why you might be confused, but Chilton was more than a decade ago."

"So that's a no?"

"That's a no."

"My own mother doesn't remember my high school nemesis?"

"I thought that was Paris."

"Fair point. Tristan wasn't exactly a nemesis, but he was a… complication. Remember when I broke up with Dean?"

"Which time?"

I shot her a dirty look. "The first time."

"Of course. A mother never forgets her daughter's first wallow."

"Right, well, remember when I wasn't ready to wallow? I went to a Chilton party, and Tristan was there, and we -"

Lorelai's hand flew to her mouth. " _That_ guy? _He_ is in your story?"

"He's the CEO of some huge company now, and the story is about a press conference they're having tomorrow."

"Did you kiss him again?"

"What?" I sputtered. "No, of course not! I interviewed him."

 _That's all, huh? Liar._

"Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

I rolled my eyes, and decided then not to tell her about the run-in with Tristan at the restaurant and the subsequent evening. And morning.

"So how is the piano man?" she pressed.

"Okay, Billy Joel, let's not call him that."

"What do you prefer to call him?" she asked with a salacious grin.

"I call him Mr. Donnel."

"Is this some kind of role-playing thing?"

"Mom!"

"What? I thought you said his name was Tristan DuGrey."

"It is. Or, was. He changed his name to Donnel."

Lorelai's brow furrowed. "Wait a second. I've actually heard of Donnel. Why have I heard that name?"

I shrugged. "It's a huge company. I wouldn't surprised if you've read about them before."

"Wow, so this guy is kind of a big deal?"

"He'd sure like to think so."

"So what's the story about?"

"Nope, sorry." I shook my head. "Professional journalists don't run home and tell their mommy all about the story they're writing. You can read about it on Monday, along with the rest of the world."

"But my hands!" she protested, holding them up as evidence.

"I told you, _my_ paper has special ink that doesn't get on your hands." I gave her a very patronizing smile and she made an ugly face at me.

"Careful or your face will freeze that way," Luke commented, popping in from the kitchen. "Dinner's ready."

The pot pie was, of course, delicious, and I devoured mine with the fervor that it deserved while listening to Luke admonish my mom for not eating the peas.

"They're good for you," he insisted while my mom pushed them around her plate with her fork. "They've got antioxidants and stuff."

"They're a very environmentally-friendly food," I contributed, surprising myself with that knowledge. I remembered hearing Chef Greg wax poetic about peas being a nitrogen-fixing crop while he was explaining the luscious risotto he'd served at Lime.

At the remembrance of the restaurant, I was abruptly flooded with the memory of Tristan's piercing blue eyes catching mine through the crowd. My stomach erupted with butterflies in a pale but accurate imitation of the effect he'd had on me two nights ago. I took a deep breath to calm myself and pulled my attention back to the present. My mom was glaring at me for my unwanted input.

"I like peas!" Noah cried, happily shoving his mouth full of the offending vegetable. Luke grinned and ruffled the kid's hair.

"Wonderful," Mom muttered. "My children are conspiring against me."

After dinner was finished and my mom had unsuccessfully tried to feed her peas to Paul Anka, I helped Luke with dishes while my mom grabbed Noah and made up an excuse to escape the chore. I planned on swinging by Lane's house on my way out of Stars Hollow, so after the dishes were put away, I hugged my brother and said goodbye before Luke took Noah upstairs to get ready for bed.

"Rory, wait," my mom called, following me down the porch steps into the yard.

"What?"

"I just wanted to give you something." She showed me a folded-up twenty-dollar bill before she tried to shove it in the pocket of my jeans. "Use it for gas money for the drive home."

"I think I'm officially too old to be accepting money from you." I fished the bill out of my pants and tried to give it back, but she held up her hands defensively and backed away.

"Just take it," she insisted. "Buy a book or something."

"I do have a job, you know. I show up every now and then and they pay me money for it. Granted, being a journalist isn't exactly the most lucrative job around, but -"

"Just take it."

"Really, Mom, I'm fine," I promised.

"Yeah, well, I'm more than fine, and twenty bucks isn't going to break the bank. I like to feel like my child still relies on me, even if it's just for a week's worth of coffee."

"I do rely on you," I assured her.

She smiled back and pulled me into a hug. "Good! Because we Gilmores like to contribute and feel involved. I hope you know that that twenty dollars entitles me to a monopoly on your time for one hour every other Tuesday. And every third holiday. And just so you know, that includes National Margarita Day, and Take your Bike to Work Day, and the Day of-"

"And how is Grandma?"

"The Club is being re-carpeted. Nancy Flemming was on the committee, and she chose the color."

"How could the Club have stood idly by while such a travesty occurred?" I shook my head in mock disbelief.

"She's doing well," she answered genuinely. "She says hello. You'll be there next week, right?"

Although Mom and I had grown slack on Friday Night Dinners for a few years, with my constant travel during the campaign and Mom's attention on her new marriage and then new baby, we had made a concerted effort to reinstate them when Grandpa passed away. I attended whenever I could, but occasionally I let Luke and Noah substitute for my presence when I had work or other plans.

 _Who am I kidding? What plans do I ever have that aren't work?_

"Hopefully. I should know for sure by Wednesday."

"Okay, hun, I'll see you later. Drive safe."

I walked to my car while she walked back to the house. If I hurried, I might be able to make it to Lane's house to say hello to the boys before they went to bed. As I pulled out of the driveway, I stopped briefly to scrawl " _See you on National Margarita Day_ " on a sticky note, and slipped it into the mailbox along with the twenty dollar bill.

. . . . .

I DROPPED MY keys onto the table just inside the door after I let myself into my apartment. Lane and Zack's house had been its usual friendly chaos, with Steve playing on Lane's drum set while Zack chased Kwan around the kitchen to reclaim the sheet music he'd used as a coloring page.

I settled onto the couch with my laptop, intending to reply to work emails and get some editing done, but my computer refused to boot up before installing software updates. I stared at the screen boasting of being 2% completed for five straight minutes before I shoved the laptop aside and decided to check on Dani.

I didn't bother putting on shoes before venturing out into the hall to knock on the door directly across from my apartment. Dani and I had started work at the Courant during the same week, and had become fast friends. She'd referred me to the apartment complex that she lived in, and as luck would have it, we'd ended up as neighbors.

Dani yelled for me to come in, and I entered to find her curled up on her couch watching a rerun of Sex and the City.

"The long-lost traveler returns!" I called out to her.

She muted the tv and turned to me with a sheepish grin. "So I guess you noticed, huh?"

"What, that you disappeared on Friday afternoon with the mention of a date, and haven't been heard from since? Can't slip anything past me. Just call me Jessica Fletcher."

"Jessica Fletcher was all about homicides," she pointed out obstinately.

"Holmes, then," I granted, not allowing myself to be distracted. I settled myself across from her while she resituated to face me, leaning against the opposite arm of the couch. "So what happened?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"I do believe you are blushing, Miss Lamonte," I crooned. Blushing was very unlike her, so I knew this story was going to be good.

"Alright," she sighed, launching into her story. "So like I said, I got set up on a blind date on Friday night. You know me, I don't do blind dates, and now I've been reminded of the reason why. I show up at the bar, and I spotted him, and oh my good lord. I kid you not, he was wearing a short-sleeved button-down, tucked into Dockers, with a cartoon tie."

It wasn't that Dani was superficial, but she had always known what she wanted and would take nothing less. If she wasn't attracted to a guy, she wasn't one to prolong the inevitable or waste anyone's time. She expected her men to live up to a certain standard, and that description certainly did not fit the bill.

I winced. "What did you do?"

"What could I do? I got the bartender's attention, slipped him fifty bucks to pay the guy's tab and told him to keep the change, then asked him to tell the poor guy that I had gotten sick and had to leave."

"So obviously you didn't spend the weekend in his bed. Where have you been?" She blushed again and buried her smiling face in her hands. "Ah-ha, so there was a bed! Whose was it?"

"There may have been a bed," she confirmed, grinning from ear to ear. "I met him outside the bar when we both tried to get into the same Uber. Can you believe there were two red Toyota Camrys doing pick-ups there at the same time?"

"Forget the Uber, tell me about the guy!"

"Okay, okay, I'm getting there! His name's Devon, he works in finance, and he's just…" She trailed off with that dopey smile spreading wider than I would've thought possible.

"Danielle Rose Lamonte! Is it possible that you've fallen for someone?"

"Who do you think you're talking to here? We just had a lot of fun," she scoffed and put on a good game face, but she wasn't fooling me. This guy had really made an impression.

"Mm-hm, so much fun that you couldn't bear to break it up to come home, apparently."

"Actually, it's funny you mention that!" She sat up straighter and gave me an inquisitive look, and I began to get nervous. "In fact I did come home early on Saturday morning, and guess what? Your car wasn't here."

I opened and closed my mouth before attempting to defend myself. "I went into the office early."

"Not before 8 AM on a weekend," she insisted. "You've got some 'splaining to do."

I sighed and launched into the story. I tried not to leave anything out, explaining everything from the Chilton connection, to meeting him in his office, and leading up to shutting the door to his apartment and trying not to look back. By the time I was done, Dani was staring at me with raised eyebrows.

"Lorelai Leigh Gilmore! Is it possible that you're falling for someone?" she echoed.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow your roll. Did you not hear the part about how we knew each other in high school? How he got his jollies by teasing and torturing me?"

"Teasing and torturing, huh? Sounds like fun to me," Dani mused.

"Not the fun kind."

"Come on. What did he ever do that was so bad?"

I paused, trying to gather my thoughts so that I could articulate them. I couldn't seem to find the words to paint the picture for Dani.

"He called me Mary," I argued lamely.

"He did not!" Dani gasped in feigned outrage. She tried to sound indignant, but it turned to laughter halfway through.

"Mary, as in the Virgin Mary," I tried to explain.

"Oooh, scandalous."

"He once tried to get into a fight with my boyfriend at a school dance."

"You do realize that for a vast percentage of high school girls, that's pretty much the dream, right? To have two guys fighting for your attention is like the sixteen-year-old equivalent of being courted by two prestigious newspapers who both want to hire you." She pursed her lips in pretend consideration. "Oh wait! You know all about that, too, don't you?"

My only reply was to stick my tongue out at her.

"Very mature," she mocked. "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Rory Gilmore, the object of desire of every man and editor in the tri-state area."

"Not every man," I scoffed. I thought that Dani may have had me confused with herself. She was the one who drew the attention of every male within a three-block radius wherever we went. I, on the other hand, was the one who hadn't had a boyfriend in two years, and hadn't even had a _date_ in almost half that time.

"Quite a few. You're just pretty oblivious when it comes to that kind of thing, and you're married to your work."

"I'm not oblivious, I'm discerning."

"Hmm, let's see here. A smart, hot man, who owns his own company and whom you've known for years and has yet to commit a felony. Yeah, you'd better be careful with that one."

"Who says he hasn't committed a felony?"

Dani just rolled her eyes. "He likes you! What's the harm, here? Have some fun."

"He doesn't like me, he just thinks he does."

"Explain to me the difference."

I opened my mouth to tell her, but then had to shut it because I was at a loss. "He drives me crazy."

She raised an eyebrow at me. "That's not always a bad thing. Trust me."

When I crawled into bed later that night, I still couldn't get my conversation with Dani out of my head. Tristan was infuriating. Always had been. The fact that I couldn't come up with viable reasons to justify that assertion just made me even more frustrated with him. And it was for that reason, I told myself, that I fell asleep to the vision of his smirk.


	6. The Bet

**Master of My Domain**

 **Disclaimer:** Gilmore Girls was created by ASP and is property of Warner Bros Television/Hofflund Polone/Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **A/N:** I'm thinking chapter updates on Tuesdays and Thursdays for the foreseeable future. (Let me know if there is a day that you guys prefer to see updates?!) So next chapter will be up on Tuesday. Or earlier, if I get impatient. Most of this is already written, so we'll fly through pretty quickly. ;-) Will be about 17 chapters total, it looks like.

 **Chapter 6 – The Bet**

By the time Monday morning rolled around, I had spent an alarming amount of time thinking about what I was going to wear to work that day. Contrary to popular belief, it was not all that easy to go ten rounds with someone who looked like they'd just stepped out of an Armani ad.

 _Despite the obvious ease and confidence with which I have always managed to do so. Clearly._

I knew I'd chosen well when Dani whistled at me when I met her in the hallway per our usual carpool routine. "You look hot today!"

"Thanks. I think it's time to do some laundry. This was one of the only outfits I could find that wasn't either wrinkled, or in need of a wash." I tried to play it cool, though I clearly wasn't fooling her or myself.

"Uh-huh. And it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that there's a particular press conference at noon today and a certain CEO will be in attendance."

"Right. Glad we got that straightened out."

The press conference had been scheduled in New York City, but when I'd submitted my story on Saturday night, I'd gotten an almost-immediate response from David, even though it had been nearly midnight. The event had been moved to a hotel conference room in downtown Hartford, which worked just fine for me since it saved me a long train ride.

"What are your plans for today?" I asked as we entered the Courant's lobby and made our way to the elevators.

"I'm completely at the mercy of the assignment desk." She grinned at me, knowing that we both shared a love of those types of days. "We'll see where the news takes me."

"I'm pretty sure I'm on my own for the press conference, so I'll have the car until about two," I warned. There were always a plethora of transportation options for either of us to dash to and from assignments, including hitching along with coworkers or borrowing a van from the paper.

"No problem. Give 'em hell today!" She winked at me and stepped off the elevator before the doors closed behind her.

Stepping out of the elevator into the bustling newsroom always put a smile on my face. Today, my natural warm, fuzzy feelings were bolstered by the pride of a prime story.

"Nice one, Rory!" Kassner called from his desk, waving the front page of the Courant where my story was placed prominently above the fold.

I smiled and accepted a few more compliments from my peers while they handed me leads or gave me copy to look over. When I reached my desk, I plopped into my chair with an armful of papers and added them to the pile that had already accumulated. No sooner had I pulled my laptop from my bag and pressed the power button than I heard jingling accompanied by the muffled sound of stilettos on the carpeted floor. I sighed and made a half-hearted attempt to hide my face behind the papers in my hand.

"Good morning, Rory!"

I pasted what I hoped would look like a somewhat-authentic smile on my face and set down the papers to show off my effort to Jamie. "Hey. What's up?"

"I just wanted to thank you again for following up with that restaurant opening! I know you were probably busy, and I really appreciate you taking the time. I know the story didn't run over the weekend, but Sam said they'll most likely put it in the section on Thursday."

Thursdays were the days that the Community section put out the majority of their reviews, knowing that the public would be looking for ways to fill their weekend. "That sounds great. Thanks for the heads up."

Jamie took up her favorite position on the edge of my desk. "So, I just wanted to see if you'd had a chance to write it yet. Because if you haven't, you know, I would be more than willing to take your notes and write the piece myself. I don't want it to be a bother or anything."

Angela had just arrived and was sliding into her seat during the end of the proposal, and she gave me an exaggerated eye roll behind Jamie's back.

"Thanks for the offer, but I already submitted the story to Sam."

Jamie's face fell momentarily, but she recovered quickly and pasted on her bright smile. "Great! Ok, well that's wonderful! Thank you again!"

Angela watched her walk away before she turned to me with disbelief still written across her face. "Jamie was trying to steal your story!"

"Don't be ridiculous. She was just trying to steal _back_ the story she pawned off on me when she thought it wasn't going to be published." I gave in to my own eye roll. "Whatever. Today's a good day, and frankly, I could care less about Jamie's flakiness."

"Good plan. Awesome Donnel story, by the way. I loved the line about… what was it? 'Funding the plan to energize the future'?"

I shrugged sheepishly. "I may have gotten a little too poetic."

"No, it was great," she insisted. "It's definitely a story that people will be talking about."

Angela turned to her computer and began her morning routine, which was just as well because I couldn't think of anything to say to her comment. That was nearly the nicest thing a writer could hear.

My own morning routine typically consisted of checking emails and messages, which always took longer after the pile-up over the weekends, and today I used a triage system for my inbox so I wouldn't spend the whole of my time before the press conference just playing catch-up. It would be nice to feel that I'd accomplished something before I had to leave.

Try as I might to ignore it, I was actually feeling a tad anxious, and the feeling only seemed to blossom into an increasingly severe case of nerves as the morning passed and the clock ticked closer to 12. As hard as I was trying to deny the feeling, I was trying even harder to not think about the reason for the butterflies that had taken up residence in the pit of my stomach. Because surely an ordinary, run-of-the-mill press conference was nothing to get worked up over.

Needless to say, my efforts were pretty much wasted, and I jerked so hard when my computer made a sound that Angela turned to look at me questioningly. I laughed her concern away and turned my attention to the instant message window that had caused my spastic reaction.

 **DavidFamlin: Got a minute?**

 **RoryGilmore: Sure. What's up?**

 **DavidFamlin: Can you come over?**

 **RoryGilmore: Be right there**

I locked my computer and swiped my notepad and pen off my desk. I nearly ran into Sam Benton while he was on his way out of David's office.

"Whoa!" he cried, steadying me when I stopped just short of colliding with his chest. "Hey, great work on the Donnel Enterprises story."

"Thank you."

"By the way, did you get my email about the Lime review?"

That may have been one of the many emails that hadn't achieved priority status, and therefore was still sitting in my inbox. "Not yet, sorry. What's up?"

"Not much, it's great," he assured. "I just sent over the revised copy. We had to change the lead just a bit, and we edited the details for it to run on Thursday. If you want, we can give you about 200 more words."

"Sure, that would be great. The place is unique for Hartford, it has an interesting story. I'll send you an updated version by tomorrow."

"Sounds good, thanks. Nice job, again!" Sam was already backing away and I gave him a smile and a wave. Everyone around here was busy, and it wasn't uncommon to carry on a conversation while walking in opposite directions.

I knocked quickly as I ducked into David's office. "Hey. You wanted to see me?"

He didn't look up from his computer or stop typing as he replied. Again, I didn't take it personally; we were all multi-taskers. "Hey Rory, come on in. Have a seat. Great job with Donnel Enterprises."

"Thank you." I was beginning to feel self-conscious about the praise, but certainly not enough to brush it off or discredit myself. Truthfully, it _was_ a great story, and I knew I shouldn't feel awkward about being told so.

David did stop typing after a moment and gave me his full attention. "Really, nice work. I'm glad I gave it to you."

"Me too." I grinned. With his eyes on mine, his words seemed to carry more weight. Besides praise, I sensed another emotion in his gaze, but couldn't quite pinpoint it. Was he… assessing me?

 _Probably just wants to make sure that my ego doesn't start to overshadow my skills._

To assure him otherwise, I added, "I'm looking forward to the press conference. I've got a pretty full list of questions that came to me while writing the first piece, and I'm sure I can draft a nice follow-up for tomorrow."

"I have no doubt." The corners of David's mouth turned up in a slight smile. "Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. Since the press conference is now local, I was thinking you could take a photog with you."

I suppressed a look of surprise. For something like this, we'd usually use an on-hand image, rather than actually send someone to the scene, but if David thought we could spare someone, who was I to disagree? I shrugged. "Great. Who did you have in mind?"

"Who would you like?" He reached out to fiddle with a collection of pens in a cup on the corner of his desk.

I had to consider for only a moment. "Henry."

"Not Dani?" It was common knowledge among the staff that Dani and I were close friends, and it was even more commonly known that she was one of the best photographers the paper had.

"No, I'm sure there's plenty going on today that's better suited for Dani. The press conference is important but straightforward, without any overly-technical considerations. Henry is relatively new here, and he's shown a lot of promise. I think this will be a great opportunity for him."

David suppressed another smile and nodded. "Works for me."

He sounded almost amused with himself, but I set that aside and decided I shouldn't try to over-analyze my editor. "Anything else?"

"No, that's all I've got. Get out there and bring back a story."

"Sure thing, boss."

. . . . .

THE MORNING FLEW by, as was typical in the newsroom, but I hadn't been ready for it today. I was in my car driving to the Hartford Marriott Downtown. I was alone, because it turned out we actually hadn't been able to spare a photog, and I was wishing I'd had more time to prepare myself for the event.

 _Oh, who am I kidding?_ _It's not the press conference I'm unprepared for. It's coming face-to-face again with a certain blue-eyed CEO._

And that was what was driving me crazy. Not in the good way, I tried to convince myself. The couple of butterflies in my stomach had turned into a swarm, and I couldn't quite decide how I felt about it. I was wildly vacillating between dread and excitement.

By the time I walked into the hotel, I was experiencing a level of cognitive dissonance that made my head hurt. My savior appeared in the form of a coffee shop nestled into the corner of the lobby. It was possible that the conflicted look in my eyes made the barista feel sorry for me, or equally likely that he was attempting to be flirtatious, but either way the feel of a free cup of coffee in my hand did wonders for my mental and emotional stability.

I followed the concierge's directions to the Capital Conference Room and could hear the familiar sounds of a room full of press before I even opened the door. Stepping through the entryway put an automatic smile on my face, and I waved greetings to those who called out to me.

"Hey Rory!"

I watched Tim Townsend from the Boston Globe duck out of a conversation and make his way toward me. I allowed him a quick hug before pulling away. "Hi there."

"I saw your story this morning. How'd you land the exclusive?"

"I have my ways."

He grinned back at me, but wore a somewhat calculating look. He still hadn't removed his hand from my arm after our hug. I took it upon myself to shift to the side, forcing Tim's hand to fall away.

The tri-state area was full of papers and therefore full of reporters, and these events tended to get a little incestuous. Tim had made his interest in me clear in the past, and I'd rebuked his attentions, and that had become our routine. I didn't take him seriously. He'd started talking about his latest story, and I let myself tune out slightly, smiling and nodding as I looked around the room to see who else was here. It was no surprise that Donnel Enterprises had drawn quite a turnout, but I also knew that my story had probably had at least some effect on attendance. No daily was going to miss out on the follow-up coverage to an exclusive.

My nerves had taken a backseat the moment I stepped foot in the door. Milling about in the sea of my fellow reporters did even more than the coffee to put me at ease.

 _It's just business_. _I can do this. Maybe I can get through this without even having to see -_

"Miss Gilmore?"

I spun around to face the person who had touched me gently on the shoulder. It was a woman I recognized but couldn't immediately place. "Yes?"

"Mr. Donnel requests to speak with you before the conference begins." As she spoke my mind filled in the blanks.

 _It's Charlene. From Tristan's office. The non-telepathic one._

I shrugged away Tim's questioning look and reluctantly followed Charlene through the crowd to a door in the corner of the room. I allowed myself to be escorted into a smaller side room that looked to be a kitchen prep area. I spotted Tristan immediately, and my eyes immediately narrowed in annoyance.

He was on the phone! Again! I turned my glare to Charlene, but she was apparently immune to my displeasure.

"He'll be right with you." She left without another word back through the doorway, leaving us alone.

Tristan stood out in stark contrast to the stainless steel kitchen with his black suit and blond hair. He turned so he was in profile to me, holding up a finger to indicate I should wait while he spoke into his phone. "Yes, I understand."

I rolled my eyes at him and crossed my arms over my chest. I was sure that I radiated frustration, and the corner of Tristan's mouth turned up in that damn crooked smile of his. He took slow steps toward me from across the room, and I watched his eyes roam over me. My mouth went dry. I remembered the effort I had grudgingly put into my appearance, and the part of me that had wanted to look good was extremely glad that he noticed.

 _Traitor._

He stopped directly in front of me and cleared his throat. "Right… Yes, I realize that… I won't let it happen. I have to go, but I expect to continue this later."

He hung up without a word of goodbye and I was left with his full attention. "Hey."

He stood unnervingly closely, but I refused to give up any ground. I momentarily forgot what I was doing there while he stared at me. "Hi."

"You look great."

A warm feeling had started in the pit of my stomach the moment I saw him, and was threatening to spill over my skin. "What am I doing here?"

 _Do not blush. Don't you dare, Gilmore. Hold yourself together._

He seemed to jerk himself back from wherever his imagination had taken him and returned his gaze to my face. "Who were you talking to out there?"

How had he known I was talking to anyone, when he was back here on the phone?

 _Oh my god. Charlene isn't the telepathic one - he is._

 _Oh shit. If he can read my thoughts, I am so screwed._

"None of your business."

"Who was it? This conference is by invitation, and if he's not credentialed, then he's going to be out on his ass before he knows what hit him."

I sighed. "He's with the Boston Globe."

"You seemed to be on pretty friendly terms."

"He'd like for that to be true."

At that, Tristan raised an eyebrow and smiled. "I really could kick him out, you know."

 _Tempting, but…_

"No, don't. He's harmless."

"Just to be clear, you're not seeing him."

"Is that a statement, or a question?"

"Both."

"No."

"Is there anyone else you're seeing?"

"No." I was growing increasingly uncomfortable with this line of questioning, and I shifted my weight under his gaze.

"Then why aren't you seeing me?" He grinned devilishly. "Because I'd sure like to see more of you."

His eyes wandered down from my face once again, and I made an exasperated noise at him. "Are you seriously asking me out right now?"

"I am," he answered confidently.

"And how often has that worked out for you in the past?"

"Well, never." He still didn't sound overly concerned.

"Yet you still thought you'd try again?"

"You can't call me anything if not persistent."

"Trust me, I can think of a few other things to call you."

He surprised me by laughing at that. "I bet you could. You definitely have a way with words. That's part of why I like you."

 _Why he… wha?_

I blinked rapidly, and was saved from having to come up with a response because he was already continuing.

"There's an event I have to go to on Saturday night, and I'd very much like for you to accompany me. It's likely to be very boring."

"Wow, you really know how to entice a woman, don't you?"

"Actually, I do."

The flash in his eyes left me with no doubt that he could back that up, and for the second time in sixty seconds, he left me speechless. I had no idea what happened to my faculties when he was around, but it was certainly a feeling I wasn't accustomed to.

"What do you say?" he prodded.

"I'm not going out with you, Tristan."

"How about if I make a deal with you?"

I eyed him speculatively. "What kind of deal?"

"I'll bet you that I can embarrass the Boston Globe guy."

"Okay. Well, have fun with that. I won't stand in your way. But what does that have to do with me?"

"If I succeed, you'll accompany me to the gala on Saturday."

"Ha!" I crossed my arms obstinately. "How do you plan on doing that?"

"I'll lead him to print something that's inaccurate, and they'll have to issue a retraction."

"Like that's so simple to do? Conning a professional journalist?"

"I have my ways."

Little did he know, he'd stolen my own phrasing from minutes ago, and I resented him for it. I tried to show it by glaring at him, but my obvious irritation wasn't enough to wipe the grin from his face.

"And what's in this for me?" I demanded.

"You mean if I don't win? I don't know. I hadn't considered that. What do you want?"

 _Well there's a loaded question if I ever heard one._

I indulged in letting my gaze slip from his eyes, across his broad shoulders, and over his suit jacket that only hinted at the lean and well-muscled form that I knew lay beneath. I quickly caught myself and looked back up at his face. His cocky smile let me know that my perusal hadn't escaped his notice.

"I want you to stop asking me out," I told him flatly.

"I can't promise that."

"Well that's what I want." I sounded petulant, so I tried to rein myself back in. I counted to five slowly in my head. "But you know what? Fine. I don't believe that you'll be able to get Tim to print anything inaccurate anyway, so I don't care. It's a moot point."

"We'll see, won't we? And I'll see you Saturday night." With a smile, he offered his hand as if he expected me to shake it.

I rolled my eyes and took his hand. "In your dreams."

"That, too." He winked at me, and before he'd released my hand, we were interrupted by a short knock at the door followed by Charlene's entrance.

"Excuse me, Mr. Donnel. It's time."

Tristan used his grip on me to pull me in closer to him, and leaned down to murmur in my ear. "Later, Mary."

He made it sound like a promise, and I shivered.

Moments later, when I had recovered, I found myself standing alone in the kitchen. I took a deep breath to steady myself and hurried to follow him out before I missed the announcement. I found my place among the press and turned toward the front of the room along with everyone else, waiting for Mr. Donnel to make his entrance.

 _What the hell just happened, and what have I gotten myself into?_

Before I had much time to ponder the implications, Tim had sidled up next to me. "What was that about? More exclusive scoop?"

I looked at him in surprise as I detected a bit more than a healthy dose of spite in his tone. I was about to respond in kind when Charlene announced the beginning of the conference and the conversations around us immediately came to a halt. I shook my head dismissively at Tim and turned my attention away.

Cameras flashed all around me as Tristan stepped up to the podium, looking for all the world as if he were about to announce that his team had finally mastered genetic perfection.

 _Yep. I'm screwed._


	7. The Four Days of Giftmas

**Master of My Domain**

 **Disclaimer:** Gilmore Girls was created by ASP and is property of Warner Bros Television/Hofflund Polone/Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **Chapter 7 – The Four Days of Giftmas**

Dani had an early morning assignment on Tuesday, leaving me with a solo commute. I had waged a small battle with myself and had finally decided, at the expense of my dignity, to stop at the convenience store across the street from the Courant. My curiosity was too strong to conquer.

I felt like a traitor as I paid for my copy of the Boston Globe, so to balance the scales I purchased a Courant as well. I stashed the Globe deep in my bag between several file folders and snuck it into the building.

I felt ridiculous for jumping guiltily as people started calling my name when I stepped onto the features floor. I put on what I hoped was a non-suspicious face and tried to act normal until I got to my desk. As soon as I sat down, I gave a furtive glance around and tried to surreptitiously flip through pages until I found the story I was looking for. It was no longer breaking news, thanks to me, and they'd placed it on the front page of the Business section.

" **Donnel Enterprises Funds Yale Alternative Fuels Research" by Tim Townsend**

I hastily scanned the article, drawing on the knowledge I'd accumulated from writing two separate stories on the topic. Everything seemed to be fine and I began to relax, until my eyes caught on a line in the second-to-last paragraph. I slapped my hand to my forehead squeezed my eyes shut, as if being blind to it would mean that it didn't exist.

My imagination had plenty of expletives for Tim, and I bit my lip to keep from cursing aloud. I banged my head once more against the palm of my hand for good measure, then peeked my eyes open and read the line again in hopes that maybe I hadn't read it correctly. Unfortunately, I had.

 _Damn you, Tim Townsend! What the hell is the matter with you that your stupid fact-checkers don't have the fear of God in them?_

When I heard footsteps I stashed the contraband under my desk calendar and willed it to disappear. Angela took her seat across the aisle and immediately put forth the question that I knew I would be asked all day. "Hey, I just heard the weirdest thing. Did you read the Globe this morning? Apparently they -"

"Yes," I interrupted.

"How come you didn't include -"

"Because it's not true."

"Ouch." Angela winced. "That's embarrassing for the Globe. That one will hurt in the morning. Do you think they'll issue a retraction?"

"Oh, I have no doubt."

If she detected my wry tone, she wisely dropped it and turned back to her desk. I directed my attention to sorting through my email inbox. If I was diligent, maybe I could take my mind off of stupid Tim Townsend and what he had cost me.

 _Maybe he'll forget._

The thought was comforting.

 _Maybe he won't even check the Globe. He's a busy man, after all._

Yeah, right. Maybe the sun would rise in the west tomorrow. This was Tristan. Of course he wouldn't forget, because that would make my life too easy.

I was on edge all morning. My solution was to increase my regular intake level of coffee, but the result was that I was still on edge and also fast-approaching a manic state. I'd made it worse. Dani messaged me as I was putting the finishing touches on a story, and I accepted her invitation out to lunch. Hopefully some food in my stomach could soak up my nerves along with a little caffeine.

We went to my favorite deli and chatted about our mornings. Rather, I let her tell me about her assignment while I waited for my turkey cobb sandwich to work its magic. By the time I got back to the office, I'd nearly reached my usual state of work zen. I was sure that I'd be able to achieve inner peace as soon as I submitted my most recent story.

Regrettably, I had to open my email to send in my article, and as soon as I did, my shot at calm was blown. Unable to help myself, I clicked on the message that had immediately caught my eye.

 _ **To:**_

 _ **From: Tristan**_

 _ **Subject: FW: RE: Correction – 'Donnel Enterprises Funds…'**_

 _ **Rory -**_

 _ **We'll leave from my building. Meet me at my apartment, 7 pm Saturday.**_

 _ **Looking forward to it,**_

 _ **TD**_

 _ **Tristan Donnel**_

 _ **CEO, Donnel Enterprises**_

 _ **Tristan**_

 _ **(860) 232-7878**_

 _ **Forwarded Message:**_

 _ **Mr. Donnel,**_

 _ **Thank you for your message. You have my assurance that The Boston Globe will issue a correction to the aforementioned story in tomorrow's edition. I apologize for any inconvenience the inaccuracy may have caused you or your organization.**_

 _ **Sincerely,**_

 _ **Sarah Sinclair**_

 _ **Editor-In-Chief, The Boston Globe**_

 _ **(617) 635-1800**_

He could go right ahead and look forward to it, I decided. That was just fine by me, and while he was looking forward to it, I'd find a way to get myself out of it. I couldn't go on a date with Tristan Donnel.

 _Could I?_

Determined, I turned my attention to matters that I deemed more important. I looked over my most recent article for the last time before sending it to David, then allowed myself a few moments to bask in the contentment of a completed story. I didn't bother trying to suppress the small smile that tugged at my lips, and I leaned back in my chair to close my eyes.

 _This really is the greatest feeling ev-_

"Whoa!"

My eyes flew open and I swiveled towards Angela, but I saw no immediately apparent reason for her outburst. "What is it?"

Before she could answer I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and my attention was brought to the spectacle taking place, answering my own question. A petite girl had just stepped off the elevator, precariously juggling the largest bouquet of flowers I had ever seen in real life. A huge frosted glass vase held a beautiful mess of purple, white, and gray flowers of all shapes and sizes.

"Definitely whoa," I agreed. "Who do you think it's for?"

"Whoever it is, I bet they quit holding out. Look at that thing! It must be somebody's third date night or something." Angela waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

We both continued to watch with great amusement while the poor girl shifted her grip on the thing so she could lean in to talk to Kevin, who was on his way past her to the elevator. I saw Kevin nod and gesture in our direction, and that was when when my smile began to falter.

I watched in horror as the girl walked closer. Then closer still. It was like a train wreck, and I couldn't look away.

"Rory Gilmore?" the girl squeaked. I nodded in response, and she seemed relieved before she went about the task of carefully placing the enormous arrangement on my desk.

No. Placing was too gentle a word. It was invading.

"Oh my god! Who are they from?" Angela squealed, already out of her seat and circling my desk anxiously.

I pushed my chair back so I could really take in the full view of the mammoth monstrosity. I couldn't deny that they were fairly pretty flowers, but I shoved that thought aside to maintain my grip on the horror at the sheer size and volume of them.

I reluctantly stood to survey my new acquisition and jerked a small white card from the bouquet, wary of Angela's eyes watching my every movement with interest.

 _ **Maybe I should have warned you -**_

 _ **I never lose.**_

 _ **See you Saturday**_

 _ **-TD**_

 _Damn him_ , I thought, and certainly not for the first time.

Angela waited while my eyes scanned the note once, then twice. She let out an impatient huff. "Well?"

I tossed the little white card into my desk drawer and shut it with a little more force than necessary. I rolled my eyes and tried to play it off, knowing full well that Angela wouldn't be having any of it. "They're from some guy."

"Look at this thing!" she cried, waving her hands at the flowers. "This is not the gesture of 'some guy'. Who is he?"

"We met at that restaurant opening over the weekend." Not exactly a lie, I reasoned. "He's just a rich trust fund guy, and he took a liking to me."

 _Again, not completely a lie. Although the trust fund part is no longer entirely accurate._

"I haven't seen you go on a date in months. I'm going to need more than that." Angela crossed her arms over her chest, and I scrambled to come up with something that would get her off my case.

I put on my most stubborn face and simply shrugged at her.

A slow smile spread across Angela's face as she sunk back into her desk chair. She shook her head at me, still grinning like the Cheshire cat. "Rory, Rory, Rory. You are in so much trouble."

"What?"

"This is going to be fun to watch." She gave me a knowing look and shook her head one last time before turning back to her computer.

I stared at her in consternation for a few more seconds before following her lead and deciding to let her keep her weird little secrets. I had other, more important, decidedly non-Tristan-related things to worry about.

I studiously ignored the massive vase for the rest of the day.

. . . . .

LATER THAT EVENING, I dumped my bag and my armful of work on the kitchen island before heading straight back into the hall to knock on Dani's door before I let myself in.

"Honey, I'm home!"

Dani bolted out of her room in three seconds flat, still trying to pull on her shirt. "Do you have something you'd like to tell me?"

"You look very pretty." I batted my eyelashes at her innocently.

"Don't play coy with me. Spill."

I sighed. Of course she would have heard about the flowers. They weren't exactly subtle, and the whole features floor had been witness to the entire fiasco. "Tristan is trying to bait me into going out with him on Saturday."

Dani settled herself on the arm of the couch, her eyes as wide as saucers. "So he finally asked you out? And when were you planning on telling me?"

"It's not a significant occurrence, trust me. He's asked me out a dozen times. It's his idea of fun."

"I don't think being rejected a dozen times would be fun for anyone."

"It's complicated."

"I have an hour before my date. I've got the time for complicated."

"Devon?" I grinned at her, hoping to distract her from her line of questioning, but she pressed on relentlessly.

"Yes. Now spill." She ignored the diversion. She was a woman on a mission, and I knew Dani well enough to know that she usually got what she wanted.

I explained the bet he'd made with me and the article in the Globe. She gave me a knowing smirk when I told her about Tristan's reaction to Tim, but she let me continue. "Now he expects me to go with him to some uppity gala or something."

"Hey, a deal's a deal. You shook on it."

I winced, not needing to be reminded. Even if I had wanted to, and I still couldn't tell if I did, I couldn't forget the warmth of his hand enclosing mine or the tiny thrill I'd felt at the way he'd pulled me toward him. I'd felt his breath on my neck as he spoke into my ear.

"I'm not going to go."

 _Are you trying to convince Dani, or yourself?_

"We'll see." Her statement seemed to echo my thoughts, but I shoved them aside.

I looked over to my friend, who was watching me expectantly. "What does that mean?"

"You're so going."

"Et tu, Brute?"

She held up three fingers and ticked them off as she validated her betrayal. "For one thing, as I've said before, you have a history with Tristan and it doesn't sound to me like it's a bad one. He obviously likes you. Secondly, I saw his picture in the paper and he's super hot. I'm talking, like, The Ryans level of hotness. Last but not least, there will probably be free food, and it will most likely be delicious."

"I'll find a way out of it." I'd meant to sound resolute, but my voice wavered a bit. I could only hope that Dani hadn't noticed.

"Good luck convincing yourself of that. Wish I could help, but I have to go finish getting ready." With that she hopped off the couch and practically skipped back to her bathroom.

Yeah, sure, now she was out of time. I'd gotten myself into this predicament, and now I guess it was up to me to get myself out of it.

 _And also to convince myself that I_ want _to get out of it._

By the next morning I had yet to come up with any brilliant ideas, save for claiming to have a contagious disease. To be honest, I hadn't put that much thought into my escape plan, figuring that I'd have plenty of time before the end of the week. To be even more honest, every time I tried to think of excuses, I found my mind wandering to my closet and wondering what I would wear to a gala. I'd already picked out the shoes.

The first half of the day passed uneventfully. A threatened nurses' strike was solved with the implementation of a new pay schedule, the city council was meeting on an initiative to create more local jobs, and someone had brought in bagels. All in all, things were running smoothly.

That is, until I returned from lunch.

I stopped short, not bothering to look to see who had bumped into me from behind. My eyes were glued to my desk, or at least what I could see of it. The gargantuan flower arrangement now had company. Lots of it.

Floating above my desk, weighted to the surface to prevent escape, were half a dozen balloons. I counted them slowly, grinding my teeth in frustration at the brightly colored Mylar and latex. Proclamations graced some of them, ranging from _Thinking of You_ in block letters to a fancy-font _Congratulations_.

I stood there with my eyes narrowed at the unwelcome additions for only a few moments. A massacre flashed before my eyes, in which I methodically took a pair of scissors to each one. But I didn't want to make a scene in the middle of the newsroom. At least, not any more of a spectacle than had already been made of my work station.

The course of action I settled on was to simply ignore them, so I marched myself to my desk and got back to work, swatting the strings of the balloons away. Some of the weights fell to the floor and consequently they blocked my view of the room, but I was too stubborn to move them.

I spent the afternoon working on a wrap-up piece about the nurses' strike. Engrossed in my work, I didn't realize it was nearly 6:30 pm until I took a break to work out a kink in my neck and happened to glance at the clock in the corner of my desktop. The floor had emptied out significantly. I'd said goodbye to Angela almost an hour earlier, and only a few reporters remained, all hunched over their desks. It wasn't exactly quiet, because a newsroom never really was, but I could hear Jeff's fingers flying over his keyboard from his position a few desks away.

My phone rang and I picked it up immediately. "Hartford Courant, Features, this is Rory Gilmore."

"You're there."

I easily recognized the voice, surprised as it was, and didn't need to ask who was calling.

"Why shouldn't I be?" I demanded.

"It's late," Tristan explained. "I meant to call earlier. I expected to get your voicemail."

"Well, here I am. What do you want?"

"Who taught you your manners?"

"Emily Post and Lorelai Gilmore."

"Now, I know that's not true, because I'm sure either of them would have told you that when someone sends you a gift, the polite thing to do is to call and thank them." I didn't have to see his face to know that he was smirking. "I've been waiting by the phone."

"I'm sure." I let my voice drip with sarcasm.

"Did you like the flowers?"

"Oh, those were from you?" I feigned surprise. "I thought TD stood for Timothy Dalton."

"Disappointed?"

"007," I said pointedly.

"I look better in a tux than Dalton."

"I doubt that," I lied. In fact, I was sure that he would look better in a tux, and I was trying to keep the mental image at bay.

"I'll prove it. Saturday."

I swallowed hard and bid an excuse to come to mind, but none did. I was still distracted by the promise of Tristan in a tux. Trying to chase away the thought, I forced my eyes to focus on what was in front of me, and my gaze landed on one of the largest balloons in the bunch.

"Why do I have a balloon that says 'Congratulations'?"

He chuckled. "I thought you deserved it. Not only have you been a good sport with me so far, but you landed a date with Hartford's Most Eligible Bachelor."

"You made that up," I accused, unable to stop myself from laughing.

"Feel free to Google it."

"Go Google yourself," I muttered.

"I'd rather you do it. You never answered me, did you like the flowers?"

"I'm not a flowers kind of girl."

"I'd love to know what kind of girl you are." His tone was suggestive, and I was glad we weren't face-to-face so he couldn't see me blush.

I sidestepped his baiting and tried to change the subject. "Stop sending me huge, obnoxious gifts."

"Your wish is my command."

"Then don't make me go out with you on Saturday."

"No such luck."

I rubbed my temple and tried to take a deep breath. "Do you sit around and try to think up ways to be difficult, or is it a natural reflex?"

"It's just an innate talent," he assured me.

"Yeah, right."

 _Tristan Donnel may be talented at many things, but…_

 _No! Stop. No more thinking about other things that he may or may not be talented at._

He was still quiet on the other end of the line, so I tried again. "You know I don't want to go to this thing on Saturday, right?"

"Right. But I also know that you will."

Again, I bristled at his unbelievable arrogance. "You think so, do you?"

"I know so. You agreed to a deal, and you wouldn't go back on it."

Was he reminding me of our so-called deal just to guilt me into going? Possibly. Was it working? Also possible.

I heard a voice in the background and Tristan's response, muffled, as he must have covered the phone with his hand. His sigh alerted me that he was back a moment later. "Rory, I have to go. I'll see you Saturday."

"Bye."

I looked at the dead receiver in my hand in bewilderment. How did he do that? We'd just had an entire conversation during which I had not only not succeeded in escaping from our 'date', but had allowed him to gain an upper-hand. Again.

 _Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore._

Evading this man may prove trickier than I'd thought.

 **. . . . .**

I ARRIVED BACK at my desk after lunch on Thursday to find a nondescript white box tied with silver ribbon. I'd broken down and finally taken the flowers home the night before, and they were now gracing the top of my bedroom dresser. The balloons, on the other hand, I had taken great pleasure in destroying with a pair of scissors once the newsroom had cleared out. A little catharsis was never a bad thing.

I lowered myself into my chair and stared at the box, aware that Angela was watching me with amusement from the corner of her eye.

 _Hadn't I told him to stop sending me gifts? Yes, yes I had. Specifically ones that were 'huge' or 'obnoxious'._

The size of the box indicated that it wasn't the former, but I supposed I'd have to open it to discover whether it was the latter. I made a mental note to be more broad in my refusals the next time I spoke with him.

Cautiously, I peeled back the lid of the box. Nestled in a bed of tissue paper was a beautiful, leather-bound copy of The Final Days. When I gently lifted the front cover of the book, I let out a breath of air. Scrawled on the title page were the signatures of both Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein. My hand hovered over the paper, afraid to touch it. These men were legendary.

Unable to wait any longer, Angela peered over my shoulder. "What is it today?"

"A book."

"That's more like it!" she exclaimed triumphantly. I looked at her questioningly and she elaborated. "Flowers, balloons, that's not you. Now the guy has stepped up his game. It's on. What book is it?"

I was reluctant to voice it out loud, not knowing what her reaction would be. "It's The Final Days."

Angela whistled. "Nice. He knows the way to a journalist's heart."

"It's signed."

Her eyebrows shot up. I turned back the front cover and pointed to the evidence. She shook her head and laughed. "Oh, Rory. I think this is it."

"Excuse me?"

"Look, I admire this little game you've been playing with the flowers and balloons. Make him work for it, you know? But come on. Give the poor guy a break already. He's obviously trying, here. I mean, do you know how hard this must have been to find? How can you resist that?"

"I'm not the one playing a game," I insisted. "He is. This is all just par for the course with him. I've asked him to stop sending me things, so of course he'll keep pushing, just to see how I react."

"Would it be the worst thing to just give him a chance?"

I sighed, but before I could even mentally prepare my counter-argument, Angela held her hands up in surrender.

"I don't mean to push. I know that I don't even know the guy. All I'm saying is, if anyone had ever made this much of an effort for me back when Eric and I were first dating, he would have had himself some stiff competition. And you're not even dating anyone."

 _Right. Like I need a reminder about that._

I did manage to focus on my work for the majority of the afternoon. But as the clock drew closer and closer to quitting time, my resolve was weakening, and I could no longer ignore the impulse that had been nagging me since I'd spoken with Angela. I wanted to look up the book.

I caved, but it turned out that it really wasn't very easy to find. Not easy at all, in fact, and by the time I found it, quitting time had come and gone. I'd sunk more than an hour of my time into the online search. I found it advertised at a rare books store in Maryland - they didn't deliver, and the price was unlisted.

I left the book in its box, safely encased for the trip home, where I set it on top of my dresser next to the flowers. I resolved to give it back to Tristan when I saw him.

Of course, that meant that at some point during the course of the week, I had begun to take it for granted that I would be seeing Tristan on Saturday. Had I subconsciously given in? And if so, what was my subconscious doing conspiring against me?

 _ **TO: TRISTAN DONNEL**_

 _ **From: Rory Gilmore**_

 _ **Subject: Cease and Desist**_

 _ **Please stop sending me things. I'm not keeping the book. You'll get it back tomorrow evening.**_

 _ **-Rory**_

 _ **Rory Gilmore**_

 _ **Features, Hartford Courant**_

 _ **(860) 232-0024**_

. . . . .

On Thursday morning I had an interview that took up far longer than I'd expected, and I barely made it back to the office in time for the weekly 411 meeting. I walked in with Angela and Kevin, swiping a donut from the box on the table before finding some empty seats. I spotted David chatting with Jeff in the front row, and I leaned over to Angela.

"I wonder if he's hired his replacement yet."

"I haven't heard anything," she murmured back. "He's only got a couple weeks left until the end of the month."

"I haven't even seen anyone come in for interviews."

Kevin leaned across Angela to add his two cents. "I bet he'll promote from within. Think about it. The new guy won't have much time to get acquainted, since David's taking over for Alan pretty much immediately. Someone who's been here all along will make the transition period a lot smoother. The money bosses will like that."

We didn't get much of a chance to discuss the possibilities before David called a start to the meeting. We spent the next forty-five minutes in the familiar routine of collaborating with coworkers. As much as we sometimes liked to gripe about the 411, I knew that we all appreciated and savored the chance to get together with all the other writers, if only to trade war stories.

I followed Angela back to our desks after the meeting, and I swiped another donut to save for later.

 _One can never have too many frosted, sprinkled donuts._

But my happy thoughts came to an abrupt halt, as did I to avoid colliding with Angela.

"Good lord, girl!" she cried.

I winced, preparing myself for what I suspected to find. I leaned around Angela and confirmed my suspicions. "Crap."

She trotted joyfully back to her own desk, clapping her hands with unrestrained mirth. I narrowly resisted the urge to stick my tongue out at her, reminding myself that I was a professional, and this was my workplace. I settled instead for giving her a sullen glare.

I plopped down at my desk and turned my attention to the object of my disdain. Angela's face looked like a kid at Christmas, even though I was the one opening the present.

The white box was identical to yesterday's, down to the silver ribbon, except that this package was flatter and longer. Ater I cautiously lifted the top off the box, I simply stared at the pile of fabric for a moment, while Angela proceeded to squeal. "Let me see, let me see!"

I lifted the fabric from the box and it began to take shape. The shape of a dress. A beautiful _,_ elegant, long black dress. Angela fussed over it while I processed the idea of my latest acquisition.

It took me only a few minutes to decide upon a course of action. Continuing to ignore Angela, I wordlessly picked up the phone. I dialed the number from my email, and waited patiently for three rings.

"Mr. Donnel's office," answered a brisk yet not unfriendly female voice.

I fumbled, having expected to reach Tristan directly. "Hi, yes, this is Rory Gilmore, and I -"

She didn't give me a chance to finish. "One moment please, Miss Gilmore."

I waited, now feeling unsure of my decision to call. I had been incensed a moment ago, completely ready to give Tristan a piece of my mind. Yet somehow between the dialing and the being put on hold, I became nervous. Should I have called? Was I just playing right into his hands?

 _Why do I even care?_

Tristan's voice interrupted my internal debate. "Rory."

"Tristan." We left it at that for the space of several heartbeats. My pride and dignity were on the line, and I knew I had to speak up soon. "Did you get my email?"

"Yes."

"The one where I asked you to please stop sending me gifts? The one that was sent as a follow-up to our previous phone conversation, in which I also asked you to please stop sending me gifts, to which you responded by sending a gift?"

"Yes."

"Stop it!"

He laughed, and I hung my head in shame. He'd managed to provoke me, again, and I did not like it one bit.

"I recall your request that I stop sending 'large' and/or 'obnoxious' gifts. I can understand how the flowers and balloons could each fall into one or both of those categories. The book was not large, nor obnoxious in any sense that I'm aware of, and -"

I interrupted, making a pass at trying to regain the ground I'd already lost thus far in the conversation. "I'm not keeping the book, I told you that."

"Has it occurred to you that perhaps I'm not sending you gifts with the intention of upsetting you? That I might actually be attempting to be nice?"

"No," I told him flatly.

"Fine," he concluded after a moment of thought. "If the book's largeness or obnoxiousness exceeds my understanding, then you may bring it back to me tomorrow night. Wearing the dress."

"I'm not wearing that dress."

"You should. It'll look good on you." His tone warmed me pleasantly from the inside, spreading through me like a hot coffee on a brisk day.

"I have to go," I told him abruptly, more than ready to put an end to this conversation, which had basically gotten me nowhere and was having some unwanted side effects. "I'll see you tomorrow."

I hung up without saying goodbye, and for the second time in as many days, found myself staring at the phone, bemused. I'd just agreed to seeing him tomorrow. Apparently of my own accord, without coercion. How had that happened?

Angela was still keeping an eye on me while she pretended to type. I glanced down again at the dress. It was a truly beautiful gift, and I may even keep this one, because what the heck was Tristan going to do with a dress? But he had another thing coming if he expected me to wear it for him tomorrow night. That was just a little too Pretty Woman for my liking.


	8. Two to Tango

**Master of My Domain**

 **Disclaimer:** Gilmore Girls was created by ASP and is property of Warner Bros Television/Hofflund Polone/Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **Chapter 8 – Two to Tango**

 _What am I getting myself into?_

I took a deep breath and gave my makeup one last check in my visor mirror. I looked good, there was no denying it. I had put in an effort, and it showed.

 _I hate that I put in an effort._

I couldn't quite decide whether I was feeling reluctant or excited as I entered Tristan's apartment building from the parking garage.

"Miss Gilmore?"

I turned to face the man who spoke my name. He was dressed in a suit, apparently a concierge of the building. Perhaps the same one I'd met before, I realized with vague recognition.

"Yes?"

"The private elevators will take you to Mr. Donnel's floors. Please allow me to escort you." The man gestured and I followed him, trying my best to ignore the mention of multiple floors. I watched him hold a card against a reader near the button for the elevator, and the doors opened seconds later. He reached in to press the button for the 22nd floor, then stepped back and held the doors for me.

"Thank you," I acknowledged, not feeling completely at ease. It wasn't nerves, I assured myself. I just wasn't comfortable with having things done for me.

"My pleasure, Miss Gilmore. Enjoy your evening."

I leaned against the back of the elevator and sighed as I quickly climbed the floors. I tried to take a deep calming breath. The plan for the night was apparently to attend a gala. A fundraiser or something, from what I understood. We would go, we would eat, and it would all be fine.

The doors opened with a quiet ding, and I found my reflection staring back at me from a mirror across the hallway. I had still refused to wear the dress that Tristan had sent, but I had taken some cues from it. Since it was floor-length, I assumed that would be the acceptable attire for the evening. I'd arrived home from work on Friday in a frenzy, and demanded Dani's assistance in planning an ensemble.

The dress we'd settled on was almost better than the black one Tristan had sent, if I did say so myself. It was a dark grey sheath dress, sleeveless. The grey satin was covered in a sheer fabric with a black ombre effect that added depth and detail.

I blinked at my large eyes in my reflection, bringing myself back to the task at hand. I took one more deep breath, let it out slowly, and crossed the hall to knock on Tristan's door. As I waited through the endless seconds that followed, my heart felt like it was in my throat.

 _This is nothing worth getting worked up over. Think of this evening as a business function. You'll go, you'll eat, you'll schmooze. You'll probably be home by eleven. No big deal._

The door swung open and I turned my wide eyes up to Mrs. Vale's. "Good evening, Miss Gilmore."

"Um… hello," I stammered. Mrs. Vale was surely starting to think I was an inarticulate imbecile. I pasted on what I hoped could pass as a polite face.

Mrs. Vale's smile was patient and kind. "Mr. Donnel is in his study, across the hall. He's expecting you. Please go right in."

My eyes followed her gesture to the identical door on the other side of the hall. "Thank you."

"It's my pleasure. Have a nice evening." She graciously waited until I was halfway across the hall before she closed the apartment door behind her.

 _No turning back now_.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I slipped through the door and into Tristan's study. The door clicked shut quietly and I kept my hand on the door handle behind my back, as if it were my lifeline for a hasty escape. I stood glued to the spot as I took in my new surroundings.

The space appeared to be just as huge as his apartment across the hall. The door opened directly into the main living space, a massive open floor plan with vaulted ceilings and, like his other space, a giant glass wall opposite the door offering a spectacular view of downtown.

Tristan Donnel himself stood staring out at that very view. This seemed to be quickly becoming the most familiar version of him: talking on the phone with his back turned to me. He raked a hand through his hair and didn't even turn to acknowledge my presence. "No, I remember that caveat from our earlier discussions."

I had a sudden and intense desire to divert his attention. The whole goal of this evening was supposed to be to get him to leave me alone. Now it seemed that I may not have as much ground to cover to achieve that goal as I'd thought, and to my horror, I was filled with disappointment.

I studiously ignored that feeling, deciding instead to be cross - I hated that he never acknowledged my presence, taking it for granted that I would wait for him to finish.

"What they have to understand is that this is non-negotiable. I trust that it will be taken care of." Tristan's voice was hard, commanding, leaving no room for argument.

Just as I was beginning to get truly annoyed, he turned toward me and began to hold up a finger to indicate for me to wait. His gaze flickered over to me and his eyebrows rose infinitesimally. He took his time in letting his eyes rake over me while my mouth went dry.

 _Why does he make me so nervous?_

I shifted my weight under his intense scrutiny, but I forced myself to hold his stare. I was satisfied to notice that he seemed to have forgotten his conversation; the hand holding his phone had fallen slightly. He blinked and seemed to come back to himself. His jaw tensed as he pulled the phone to his ear once again. "This is a deal-breaker. Fix it."

Without another word of goodbye, he abruptly ended his call. Without taking his eyes off mine, he stalked toward me where I was still glued to the door. For the first time I truly drank him in, and involuntarily sucked in a breath that I hoped was quieter than it sounded to my own ears. He really did look amazing in a tux.

He didn't stop until he was directly in front of me. He dropped his eyes from mine to sweep them over me once more. "You didn't wear the dress I sent."

"I told you I wouldn't." I squirmed under his gaze, cursing myself for feeling self-conscious. Was he saying I wasn't appropriately dressed?

"I'm glad," he murmured. I noted with a healthy dose of self-satisfaction that his eyes had darkened. I tried to suppress a smile. "You are breathtaking, Miss Gilmore."

"You're not so bad yourself, Mr. Donnel." I tried to sound disinterested, and didn't entirely succeed.

Tristan's mouth twisted into his trademark crooked grin. "Better than Dalton?"

"You wish," I muttered.

The truth was, he made Dalton at his prime look like a poor slob, but there was no reason he needed to know that, and I certainly wasn't going to be the one to tell him.

"Are you ready to go?"

"If we must."

Tristan raised an eyebrow at me. "If you don't want to go, we could always stay here. I'm sure we could find some way to pass the time."

My traitorous subconscious nodded enthusiastically, but outwardly I narrowed my eyes at Tristan. "Let's go."

"If you insist." He reached out to place his hand on my bare upper arm and pulled me away from the door, which I was still blocking. His hand moved to the small of my back to guide me through as he opened it, and we stepped out into the hallway.

"What is this gala about? And where we going?" I asked anxiously, trying to distract myself. His hand remained on my back while he pressed the button for the elevator.

"It's a fundraiser for an organization called Future 50. It's a non-profit consulting group that helps companies identify and implement sustainability practices."

Obviously from my research I knew that Tristan's company was a large driving force in the world of sustainable business, though I hadn't realized how deep his conviction ran.

"Are you involved in the organization?" The elevator arrived and we stepped in.

He gave me a wry smile, glancing at me from the corner of his eye. "You could say that."

I was distracted by the sensation of the elevator rising instead of lowering. "Where are we going? Is the event in this building?"

Tristan shook his head at me, smiling secretively. I didn't have much time to be confused, because the elevator ride was short and the doors opened out to a small room. It was similar to the hallway on Tristan's floor, down to the same wood floors and end table in the middle of the foyer. There was a door directly in front of the elevator, rather than to the sides, and Tristan led me to it quickly.

I was shocked to be struck by a gust of cool air. The door led directly to the rooftop, where the rotor blades of a helicopter spun slowly.

"Where are we going, Tristan?" I demanded again, but with much more of an edge. My panic seeped into my tone.

"New York."

I didn't have much time to process this revelation. As I stood glaring in disbelief at Tristan, who couldn't keep that damn grin off his face, a man emerged from the helicopter and strode purposely forward to shake Tristan's hand.

"Mr. Donnel," he greeted.

"Wood," Tristan acknowledged briefly. "Is she ready?"

For a brief moment I thought he was talking about me, and I blanched. Was I ready for this? No, absolutely not. I'd never been in a helicopter before. But Wood was answering, and it became clear that Tristan was talking about the chopper.

"Preflight check complete, sir. She's ready when you are."

Tristan turned to me and Wood sensed he was dismissed, turning and climbing back into the cockpit. I turned my eyes up to Tristan's, not making any attempt to hide my shock. His grin widened. "Are you ready?"

 _That's you this time, Rory._

"Nice of you to finally think to ask how I feel about this!"

"Haven't you ever flown before?" he asked, still grinning madly.

"Yes, in commercial jets, with a hundred other people and flight attendants and neck pillows and trained pilots!"

"James Wood is former Air Force. He's very competent, I assure you."

"Can't we just take a train?"

"That will take hours. The event will be over before we get there."

"Would that be the worst thing?"

"Trust me, this is the best way to travel. Time is money, Mary."

"Don't call me Mary," I snapped.

He stepped closer, using his body to partially shield me from the whipping winds as the helicopter's rotors began to pick up speed. "You'll be safe, I promise."

"I can't believe I'm even considering making this one of the first times that I take your word for it."

He chuckled. "There's a first time for everything."

"And a last." I looked over his shoulder to eye the helicopter speculatively.

Tristan's fingers caught a piece of my hair that was flying wildly around my face, and tucked it securely behind my ear. "You don't have to do this, you know. We can ditch the gala."

" _Now_ you're giving me an out?" I joked.

His blue eyes bore down on me, his face shadowed in the bright lights surrounding the helipad. "Yes. Are you in, or are you out?"

 _Moment of truth, Gilmore. Are you in or out? Are you doing this?_

I spared one more glance to the shiny-metal-potential-death-trap before redirecting my gaze to Tristan, who was looking down at me earnestly. "I'm in."

His grin ratcheted up a notch, and once again he placed his hand on the small of my back to guide me over to the helicopter. Tristan ducked his head slightly as we approached and shifted his arm around my shoulders, encouraging me to do the same so we could protect ourselves from the harsh winds.

"You first!" he told me as we approached the door. I clambered inside and took the middle seat in a row of three. I didn't want to sit too near the door. Wood sat in front of us in the cockpit, flipping switches and maneuvering dials and who knew what else.

 _This is it. I'm going to die. I always knew Tristan DuGrey would be the death of me._

Tristan climbed in behind me and took the seat to my left. He coached me through the intricacies of the seat harness, and I was all thumbs as I tried to buckle myself in. My hands were shaking, and I couldn't tell whether it was all due to nerves from my first helicopter flight, or because Tristan's thigh was touching mine.

Tristan reached forward and grabbed two sets of large headphones, handing one to me. I stared at his offering with a bemused frown. He settled his own over his ears and then leaned forward to do the same to me. He tucked both sides of my hair behind my ears before slipping the headphones over my head, and my skin tingled where he'd brushed against me.

"Ready, Mr. Donnel?" I heard Wood's disembodied voice through the headphones, and I glanced at Tristan.

"Control to you," he replied. He glanced over and saw me looking at him, and winked at me. I took a deep breath, preparing myself.

Wood's voice chattered over the headphones, talking nonsense that I didn't understand. "Tango Delta to HFD, cleared for takeoff."

Another voice responded. "Roger Tango Delta, proceed to flying altitude."

"Tango Delta to KJRA via HFD. KJRA standby."

"KJRA on standby for Tango Delta."

Before I could decipher any of this, we were lifting off into the air. We hovered above the rooftop momentarily, then I took a deep breath and a firm grip on the edge of my seat as the rest of downtown Hartford fell away below us.

Tristan kept an eye on me, watching me with amusement as I glanced briefly out the window then snapped my eyes shut. Wood began speaking again, but Tristan reached up above him and flipped a switch, effectively cutting off the disembodied voices in my ears.

"Relax, Rory." I could still hear Trisan through the headphones, and he nudged me with his shoulder. "Just take a look."

I tentatively glanced once more out the window, without moving my body. I wasn't planning on moving any closer to the door if I could help it. Not that I really could've moved much at all, given my current state of being thoroughly strapped to my seat. I watched as the lights and buildings of Hartford grew smaller below us, and even as I watched I had to turn my head back to keep them in my view. We were leaving the city behind.

"How long will it take us to get there?" It was a startling sensation to hear my own voice through my headset.

"We'll be landing in about forty-five minutes. It's about a ten-minute car ride from the heliport to the hotel."

My eyes shot to him. "Hotel?"

Tristan nodded, amused by my reaction. "The event is at the Waldorf."

 _Of course it is. Why else did you think we were going to a hotel?_

I shut out my inner voice, turning back to the view instead, which was becoming darker as we rose higher into the sky, leaving the lights of civilization behind. I slowly began to relax, releasing my grip on the edge of my seat. This wasn't as bad as I was expecting. It was actually pretty amazing to be suspended in the night air. We flew in silence for several minutes. If I squinted I could make out the light of the stars above us, but the darkness was only truly penetrated when we occasionally passed over cities below. The cabin remained in relative darkness, illuminated only by the instrument panels in the cockpit. I casually snuck a glance at Tristan, only to find him watching me intently. His profile fell in and out of shadow as the brief light from below us faded once more.

"Like what you see?" he asked softly.

I couldn't help but laugh. "So is this your best move? Take a girl up in your helicopter and just hope she swoons?"

"Well it's _a_ move, sure, but certainly not my best. Don't underestimate me, Miss Gilmore," he teased.

"Never, Mr. Donnel."

I turned my attention back out the window, finding myself enjoying the flight. I liked watching the glow of cities below grow brighter as we drew closer, and then fade out behind us. Before I knew it, Tristan nudged me again and nodded out his window.

"We're almost there. Take a look."

I complied, and blinked in surprise. The glow of New York City was already looming in the distance, and as we drew closer I found myself straining against my harness, trying to get a better view. When the helicopter banked gently left, my body was pressed up against Tristan's. I braced my hand on my seat, trying to gain some space from him. He was warm, and I was feeling overheated.

We both remained silent as we watched our approach. The lights grew steadily brighter until we were soaring high atop the city. The light started to penetrate the cabin, illuminating Tristan's dark blue eyes as his gaze flickered from the city to me and back again. We were steadily dropping altitude, drawing closer.

The feel of his body against mine was becoming distracting and I felt a humming through my veins. My awareness was slowly but surely focusing in on our connection, particularly where his body heat radiated through his suit jacket to my bare skin. I shivered involuntarily, and Tristan frowned at me.

"Cold?"

I shook my head. I watched his Adam's apple bob, and then I realized that meant I was looking at him, so I averted my gaze out the window as we drew closer and closer to the highest skyscrapers. Some of the surrounding buildings began to loom above us, and my body tensed again. The feeling was claustrophobic, but so thrilling. We dropped lower and lower, and my eyes began to search for our possible landing port.

Tristan must've felt my tension. "We're almost there."

I couldn't tear my eyes away from the window as the heliport finally came into view. I watched as we drew closer and before I knew it, we had touched down. The landing was much more gentle than I would have thought. Tristan reached up to flip a switch and suddenly Wood's voice was back over the headsets.

"Tango Delta to KJRA, standby for return to HFD at twenty-three hundred."

"KJRA on standby, Tango Delta. KJRA out."

"Ready to you, Mr. Donnel."

Tristan reached over to help me remove my headset, and my hands swept nervously through my hair. Between the wind and the headphones, I wish I could've just worn a ponytail. He quickly and adeptly unfastened himself from his seat while I struggled with my own straps. When he was finished with his, he leaned over and unfastened me from my seat. I held my breath while his fingers ghosted over me.

When I was free, I flexed and rolled my shoulders, relishing in my freedom of movement. Tristan stared down at me with dark eyes. "Let's go."

He climbed out of the cabin first, offering me his hand while I clambered out as gracefully as possible considering my floor-length dress. It was not as easy as it sounds. When I had effectively extricated myself, I looked up at Tristan's amused expression.

"What?" I demanded. "You try doing _that_ in this dress."

"No, thank you. That dress looks much better on you."

 _And that tux looks much better on you._

Tristan offered me his arm. "Shall we?"

"Let's get this over with," I grumbled

"If it makes you feel any better, that's precisely my sentiment. I'm not a fan of these events." He opened a door for me and ushered me through into a foyer similar to the one we'd left at his building in Hartford. He reached forward to press the call button for the elevator.

"Then why are you going?"

He shrugged. "I have to. I'm expected."

 _Oh the difficulties of high-society life._

We stepped onto the elevator and Tristan pressed the button for Lobby. A small part of me gave an inward sigh of relief. Perhaps the rest of this evening could go as planned, without any further terrifying ( _thrilling)_ surprises.


	9. Blackberry Blues

**Master of My Domain**

 **Disclaimer:** Gilmore Girls was created by ASP and is property of Warner Bros Television/Hofflund Polone/Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **A/N:** Since this is an AU story, we can ignore the fact that the Waldorf Astoria New York is closed for refurbishments right now. ;-)  
 **Chapter 9 – Blackberry Blues**

I had to hurry to keep up with Tristan's quick strides as we exited the lobby of the building. I followed him outside to the curb where a small Hybrid SUV was parked, presumably waiting for us. The man leaning against the passenger side door straightened immediately.

"Good evening, Mr. Donnel."

Tristan only nodded in acknowledgement, and the man quickly opened the back door. Tristan gestured for me to climb in first, and I acquiesced while trying to retain as much dignity as I could. This dress was truly not made with maneuverability in mind. Tristan climbed in gracefully behind me.

We swiftly pulled out into traffic and set off on our way to the hotel. I'd never been to the Waldorf Astoria New York. I guess if nothing else, this evening would give me my chance. That, and I'd also managed to convince myself through the course of the week that this evening was my chance to return…

 _Dammit._

"I forgot your book."

"Excuse me?" Tristan asked.

"I wanted to return your book tonight, and I just realized I left it in my car."

 _I was too busy applying lip gloss and stamping down the butterflies in my stomach._

"I told you, I don't want it," he said. "I gave it to you. You keep it."

"Absolutely not." I shook my head adamantly. "It may not be large, but it definitely fits into the 'obnoxious' category, and that's outside the agreed-upon parameters."

"First of all, I don't believe I ever actually agreed to any parameters you may have tried to establish. And secondly, you hurt my feelings when you say my well-thought-out gift was obnoxious." He had the gall to try to look offended, but the spark of humor in his eyes gave him away.

"Well-thought-out or not, I'm not keeping it." He frowned at me, and I continued to try to reason with him. "It's not that I don't appreciate the thought, but it's a priceless copy. Literally. I found exactly one seller online, and the price wasn't even listed."

He blinked at me. "So?"

"It's the value that makes it obnoxious. I don't want your obscenely-expensive gift."

"If it makes you feel any better, I didn't buy it for you. I've had it for awhile. Ever since that night after Lime, that book will always remind me of you." His eyes sparkled with mischief and amusement. "I want you to have it."

"I don't want it."

Tristan sighed. "Can't you just accept a gift with gratitude? First the flowers, then the balloons, and now -"

"Whoa, hold on. You can't really blame me for not falling over myself to thank you for the 'Congratulations' balloons. Conceited much?"

"Touche," he laughed. "The flowers and the balloons may have been thinly-veiled attempts to get you to contact me."

I fought to hold onto my sense of self-righteousness in the face of his candor.

"Thinly-veiled?" I scoffed. "I don't think so. You may not be as clever as you think you are."

 _I do not care that this man put thought and effort into getting my attention. I do not care that he wanted me to call him, and so sent me both ironic and considerate gifts. I do not care that he's sitting so close that our thighs are almost touching. I do_ not _._

I needed to stop this kind of thinking. Or maybe I just needed to get away from Tristan in this small enclosed space. I peered out the window for an excuse to look away from him and changed the subject post-haste.

"Donnel Enterprises has an office in the city, right?"

"Yes, in the Financial District."

"But the Hartford office is still the corporate headquarters? Why not here?"

"Because the headquarters is wherever I am. And I didn't like living in the city."

"Well, then," I muttered. "I guess it's nice to be the CEO."

"Why yes, it is pretty great to be me. Especially tonight." He winked at me. "What about you? Why Hartford?"

"Hmm?" I questioned. I needed to buy myself some time; the wink had thrown me more than I'd admit.

"Why did you choose the Courant? From what I understand, you had offers from other publications. Why Hartford?"

"There were lots of reasons," I answered dismissively.

"Such as?"

I smoothed my hand over my dress, fidgeting under his intense gaze. "Why do you ask?"

"Just something I've been curious about."

"For one thing, my family is here. My mom still lives in Stars Hollow, and my grandmother lives in Hartford."

Tristan nodded solemnly. "I heard about Richard. I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thanks. He passed away around the time that I was making my decisions, and being close to family was definitely a draw."

"I've heard that proximity to family holds a certain appeal to some people."

"You're not one of them, I take it?"

"What gave it away?"

"Emancipation, name change, and the biting sarcasm just now were all pretty firm indications."

He shrugged. "My family was never exactly the Brady Bunch. But we're not talking about me, we're talking about you."

"What else did you want to know?"

"The rest of the story. You said family was one thing that drew you to Hartford. What else?"

"If I had gone to the Washington Post, or the Times, or any of the other big-city dailies, it could have been years before I was published. I knew that with a smaller publication, I could have more of an impact. Play a larger role."

"Sounds logical. I'd expect nothing less from you."

"Why were you curious about that?"

His brow furrowed while he considered his answer before finally replying. "I'm usually good at reading people. But not with you. I like to know how people think, how they'll react. I've never been able to do that with you. You've always been a little different."

"Gee, thanks?" I muttered, uncertain how I felt about being 'different'.

He gave me his now-infamous crooked smile. "Don't worry. That's part of what I like about you."

 _Twice in one week now that he's admitted that he likes you, Gilmore. What do you make of that? What's a girl to do about this?_

"The Courant was a particularly good choice," Tristan continued.

I gave him a sharp look. "I know. I'm very comfortable with my choice, thank you. I don't need you to validate my decision."

He held up his hands in surrender. "That's not what I meant. I'm merely commenting on the economic viability of your paper. Its audience is vast, measuring well beyond the city limits, and subscriptions are actually on the rise when most of the nation's dailies are seeing their subscribers dropping like flies."

"You sound like you've done your homework. Why do you know about the Courant's subscription rate?"

"It's part of my job to keep my finger on the pulse of the economy, particularly in the media industry."

"Admit it. You were checking up on me," I teased.

 _Ha! Let him have a taste of his own medicine. You're not the only one who can pretend to be the center of the universe, Mr. Donnel._

"Fine. I was checking up on you."

 _Uh-oh. My teasing has backfired._

"What?" I sputtered.

"I told you when we met at my office. When I saw your name on that article in the Times, I was intrigued. I did some research, and one thing led to another - you know the rest."

I couldn't quite decide whether I found it creepy or flattering that he'd done research on me. "I'm glad we measured up to your no-doubt considerable standards."

"Pigs may fly on the day that Rory Gilmore doesn't measure up to any man's standards." Before I could respond, he glanced quickly out his window. "We're here."

I tried to peer up at the tall buildings surrounding us, but couldn't quite see anything useful from my vantage point. I certainly didn't see the iconic entrance to the Waldorf Astoria New York.

As if reading my mind, Tristan provided an answer. "We're taking a back entrance."

"Why?"

"I'd like to avoid a run-in with some of your peers."

 _Wow. Fair point. I forgot that I'm accompanying a man who is surely paparazzi bait._

I chastised myself for not even thinking about the fact that reporters would be covering the event. I had absolutely no desire to be photographed tonight - or any other night - and was suddenly intensely grateful to Tristan for steering us clear of that situation.

We parked curbside and the driver hopped out quickly to open my door. I dismounted from the SUV more gracefully than I had managed in the helicopter and turned expectantly for Tristan, but he had already exited from the opposite side and come around to stand next to me. I tilted my neck to gaze up at the impressive building and took a deep breath, attempting to mentally prepare myself for the night ahead.

"Ten forty-five sharp, same location," Tristan told our driver.

The other man nodded curtly before climbing back into the car, realizing that he was effectively dismissed. I automatically took Tristan's offered arm and allowed myself to be escorted toward the building while I made an observation.

"Not much for pleasantries, are you?"

He looked down at me, puzzled, and we paused with his hand on the door handle. "What do you mean?"

 _Is this man really so accustomed to having things done at his command, without question, that he takes it for granted?_

"Nevermind."

Tristan held the door open for me and ushered me inside. We entered through the back of the hotel, through what appeared to be a staff-only area.

"Shouldn't that door have been locked or something?" I mused.

"I thought I told you not to underestimate me. I have my ways." He gave me a sly smile, which I couldn't help but return.

"Oh excuse me, I must've forgotten who I'm dealing with."

"What can I say? I'm a powerful man."

 _Mmm-hmm. Clearly._

I let him lead me through a maze of doors and hallways. As we moved further into the building, we began to pass others; first staff members, then gradually a few more apparent gala attendees, dressed in their finest. I said another silent thank you to Dani for helping me sort out the dress situation.

"Have I told you how incredible you look tonight?"

My eyes shot up to Tristan's, and he was gazing down at me with that damn crooked grin of his.

 _I don't care, tell me again!_

"There may have been mention of something to that effect," I answered instead. "So now do you feel bad for arguing with me about the dress you sent?"

"Not in the slightest. I still think that the dress will suit you well. However, I do admit that in this case, your judgment was sound." He leaned down to murmur close to my ear. "I approve."

The hair on the back of my neck stood on end, and part of me was doing cartwheels at having earned Tristan's stamp of approval. Luckily, there was still a big part of me that remembered that the approval of this man was not something I strived for.

Tristan stiffened at my side and I glanced at him in time to see him pull his phone from his pocket. He looked at the screen and furrowed his brow. We paused in the hallway.

"One moment," he told me distractedly, putting the phone to his ear. "Donnel."

I watched him listen to the person on the other line while his eyes narrowed. When he spoke again, his voice was harsh, commanding; clearly not meant to be challenged. "That was _not_ a part of the deal. That's unacceptable."

Another tuxedoed man and a woman in a dazzlingly beautiful navy dress sauntered past us, and her eyes widened slightly at the sight of Tristan, lingering and clearly enjoying the view. Her gaze then passed over me dismissively.

 _Yeah, lady. I'm not quite sure what I'm doing here with him, either._

Tristan had turned his shoulder to me while he spoke intensely but quietly into his phone. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but the conversation dragged on for what felt like several minutes and I had no choice but to stand awkwardly by his side. The hallways of the hotel were a maze, and I had no idea where I was going. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, becoming increasingly uncomfortable, and increasingly annoyed with Tristan for making me feel that way.

"I don't care about that," he said harshly into his phone. "Just find a way to make it work."

He abruptly hung up and turned to me once more. All traces of amusement were gone, and his jaw was set in a hard line. "Let's go."

Rather than offer his arm this time, he grasped my hand and pulled me along beside him. I settled for this for half of the length of a hallway, nearly tripping over my heels in an effort to match his quick strides.

"Slow down!" I admonished, pulling away from his grip.

He glanced down at me and said nothing, but he acquiesced and adjusted his speed accordingly. We took a sharp left turn into yet another hallway, but I had seen the other well-dressed people heading in the opposite direction. "Where are we going?"

"Side entrance."

"Why?"

"I told you, I want to avoid a scene."

What the hell had happened to him? Five minutes ago he was flirting and joking with me. "What's wrong?"

"Everything's fine."

And with that blatant lie, he swung open a door and ushered me through into a palatial ballroom brimming with partygoers. My breath caught in my throat at the abrupt change of scenery.

I would've loved to argue some more, but quite frankly, I was overwhelmed. I'd seen pictures of the Waldorf's Grand Ballroom, but had never pictured myself as a participant in the middle of all the opulence. Outside chasing interviews, sure, but not wearing a gown and mingling with the city's elite.

 _The DAR debutante ball has nothing on this._

I'd never be able to retrace the route we'd taken through the innards of the hotel, but just as Tristan promised, we had emerged from a side entrance onto the first floor of the four-story room. Strands of white lights and white flowers covered every surface. Scattered strategically across the ballroom floor were two dozen white-clothed tables, along with a dozen more in the second-story balcony. The tables on our level were spaced to provide a decent-sized dance floor in the middle. A giant LCD panel above the podium on the stage featured a logo and tagline for Future 50.

With a hand pressed against my back, Tristan ushered me quickly yet gracefully through the crowd. We'd made it past the first few tables before we were stopped.

"Donnel." We both turned to the burly man who extended his hand to Tristan. "Looks like it's going to be a great turnout this year."

He gave the man a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Let's hope so. If I recall, we need to beat last year's donations or I owe you a drive."

"I hate to root against such a good cause, but I'm almost hoping we fall short." The man grinned. "Either way, I'm looking forward to it."

Tristan politely ended the encounter and maneuvered us away.

"What was that about?"

"What?" He continued to guide me through the throng of people milling about the floor.

"You'll owe that man a drive if this event doesn't raise enough donations? Somehow I can't exactly picture you chauffeuring anyone around town."

"He bet me we couldn't beat least year's total. I told him if we failed to do so, he could drive one of my cars."

I didn't get it, but didn't have much time to dwell on it as we were met by another couple with their sights set on Tristan.

"Mr. Donnel!" the man exclaimed, extending his hand. "It's nice to see you. Thank you for having us. This is my wife, Nina."

"Thanks for coming, Donovan. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Stefano. I hope you enjoy the evening."

I was once more steered away, and it did not slip my notice that for the second time he had failed to introduce me.

"I'm sure it _would_ have been a pleasure to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Stefano," I muttered under my breath.

"Would you like me to call them back over?" he asked wryly.

"That won't be necessary."

I was becoming more and more irritated by his sudden mood shift. Where did he get off being short with me? He'd dragged me here, not the other way around.

 _It's not like I think I'm doing him any favors by being here, but I'm certainly not here for my health, either!_

We didn't make it another ten feet before being approached by another couple. The greeting came from a stunning red-headed woman whose gown hugged all the right curves. "Good evening, Mr. Donnel."

"Anita, good, you're here. I may need you later tonight." Tristan didn't bother attempting to conceal his foul mood or brusqueness this time.

The woman didn't seem fazed by him but she grimaced at his words. "The Epsilon deal?"

Tristan nodded curtly. Anita introduced the man beside her as Jacob, and Tristan finally seemed to remember me. "Anita Jenson, Rory Gilmore. Rory, Anita."

 _As introductions go, that one wasn't the greatest, but I guess it's better than being ignored._

I caught Anita giving Tristan a raised brow before she quickly turned to me. "Ms. Gilmore, it's nice to meet you."

"Likewise," I replied with a tight smile.

 _Don't think I missed that little look you just shared with my date, Little Miss Gorgeous._

Whoa there. The minute I started thinking of Tristan as my date, I knew I'd be in trouble

We arrived at our table without any further encounters and took our seats while the multitude of other people milling around the room went about the same task. There was one other couple already at our table, and Tristan offered a similarly hasty and half-hearted introduction.

The man appeared utterly uninterested in his surroundings, but the woman was all smiles. "It's great to meet you, Rory. Your dress is absolutely beautiful."

I liked her immediately, if only for her use of my first name. Teresa Smoot must have been in her early fifties, with white hair which I couldn't definitively say was natural or dyed.

"Did you attend this event last year?" she asked.

I shook my head but found I didn't have to contribute much more to the conversation to keep Teresa on a roll.

"Well we've been to this event for the past four years. It's been a pleasure to watch the support for the organization grow. I remember the first year, the total raised was less than a million. Can you imagine!" She laughed and shook her head as if such a number was an abysmal excuse for fundraising.

I gave her a polite smile and continued to listen to her recollections of years past, perfectly content to engage in a one-sided dialogue. Tristan had been busily typing away on his phone since we sat down and I glanced at him to see his scowl still firmly in place.

"And what do you do, dear?"

 _Alert, alert! Answer required!_

"I'm a journalist," I told her, pulling my attention back to Mrs. Smoot.

"How exciting!" she exclaimed, and began to regale me with a tale of her cousin's daughter who was studying journalism. I nodded and smiled in all the right places, distracted by the man beside me who hadn't said a word since we'd sat down.

Teresa's husband politely interrupted her, throwing an apologetic smile my way. "The Lakes have just arrived. We should go say hello."

"Of course," she agreed. "Please excuse me, Rory. We'll be back!"

As soon as they were out of earshot, I turned to glare at Tristan. "Hey!"

His eyes snapped to mine, flashing with annoyance. His jaw was set in a firm line, and his aggravation was obvious. "What?"

"Why am I here?" I demanded.

Confusion flashed across his features before he glared at me. "What do you mean? I invited you, and you accepted."

"Oh good, so you do remember. I didn't ask to be here, Tristan. I didn't even _want_ to be here. I came because you wouldn't stop pestering me about it. And yet ever since we got here, you've barely said two words to me."

The sound of his phone vibrating interrupted me. With a quick glance at the Caller ID, he silenced it and let it go to voicemail. I watched his jaw clench as he ground his teeth in frustration, turning away and raking his hand through his hair. When he looked at me again, his expression had softened. "You're right."

I was ready to argue some more, but closed my mouth as I registered what he said. "Huh?"

 _I'm so glad that I have such a way with words._

Tristan took a deep breath and let it out. "You're right. I got… distracted."

I remembered him being displeased with his phone conversation when I arrived at his apartment, but he'd seemed to forget his grievances easily enough. With the exception of my initial sheer terror, everything was fine during our flight from Hartford. He was all flirtatious and his typical infuriating self up until he took that phone call in the hallway. Since then he'd become a different, much less exciting type of infuriating. A type I didn't like nearly as much.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing," he lied.

I would've liked a less dismissive answer, but didn't get a chance to press him for details as another couple took their seats at our table, quickly followed by the return of Mr. and Mrs. Smoot. The rest of the attendees were settling in, finding their tables, and an expectant hush began to fall over the ballroom. I gave Tristan once last wary glare before turning my attention to the front of the room.


	10. Highest Bidder

**Master of My Domain**

 **Disclaimer:** Gilmore Girls was created by ASP and is property of Warner Bros Television/Hofflund Polone/Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **A/N:** Sorry guys, but we may need to skip the Thursday update this week - enjoy this longish one in the meantime. Thanks as always for coming around! Whether you say hi in the comments or prefer to keep quiet, I appreciate you being here!

 **Chapter 10 – Highest Bidder**

The assembled crowd became quiet at the appearance of an immaculate blond woman who easily captured and held the attention of the hundreds of people before her. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Thank you for being here tonight in support of Future 50. I'm Kelly Shipman, Director of Public Affairs for Future 50. I was lucky to get any face time in this evening, but I couldn't pass up the opportunity to come out and thank you all myself for your support. Tonight is the fifth anniversary of this event, and whether this is your fifth year here with us or your first, we're so happy and honored to have you. We've got a full evening planned, so without further ado, I'll pass the torch off to our host. Please join me in welcoming Damien Jarvis!"

A strikingly handsome man who I assumed to be Damien took the stage amongst a rousing round of applause. "Thank you, Kelly, and thank you everyone. It's an honor to be here tonight. Future 50 is very important to me, and not just because it's run by my employer. On more than one occasion, the organization has proven its impeccable judgment and excellent taste by presenting me with awards."

The crowd chuckled, and Teresa Smoot leaned over to me. "Isn't he just wonderful? He was the host for this event two years ago. We're in for a treat!"

I smiled at her while Damien continued. "In all seriousness, though, Future 50 and everything it represents are very close to my heart. Thanks to this organization, companies small and large are on equal footing when it comes to opportunities to change the way their business is run."

Damien boasted of the successes of the group and I listened intently. Although I hadn't heard of Future 50 before tonight, I was surprised to learn that the group was responsible for several projects and ventures I'd read about. In addition to helping local, national, and even international companies develop and implement sustainable practices, they were also leaders of the field in marketing and promoting their causes.

They began to play a promo video showcasing Future 50's successes. The lights in the ballroom dimmed, leaving us with a fraction of illumination emanating from the small white lights hanging from the ceiling and draped across the balconies. Tristan also kindly provided extra illumination from his phone while he continued to madly type out emails or text messages or whatever was best suited for his apparently monumentally important communication that just couldn't wait.

"Pay attention," I hissed under my breath.

"I've seen it before."

"At least listen to the host."

"I am. I'm multitasking."

"I hate to break it to you, but your multitasking skills leave something to be desired."

"Do you really hate to break it to me?" He quirked an eyebrow at me and if I didn't know better, I'd say he looked slightly amused.

 _Bestill my heart, I've amused him._

"No, I don't," I snapped. "I don't hate it at all. I am in fact more than happy to inform you of your shortcomings."

I turned my attention back to the video but didn't miss his trace of a smile. I was fuming, and he was laughing at me. I guess times really don't change.

Damien seamlessly facilitated the evening, which included speeches from leaders whom Fortune 50 had consulted with on the results of their initiatives, interspersed with showcases of the organization's biggest donors. All the while, Tristan continued to pay absolutely no attention. I gave my best impersonation of a happy partygoer, while on the inside I was equal parts infuriated and uncomfortable. Everyone around us seemed to know Tristan and were at least pretending not to notice that he had checked out of the situation. I was exasperated with myself for feeling awkward and even angrier with Tristan for making me feel that way.

The evening carried on regardless of my inner turmoil, and when Damien exited the stage for dinner and dancing to commence, I excused myself to the restroom.

 _Get your shit together, Rory Gilmore._

I stared myself down in the mirror above the bathroom sink. This was so not me. I'm not the girl who needs to rely upon someone else to see her through social situations. I can liaise, network, and make small talk with the best of them.

It was all Tristan's fault, I decided. He'd wanted me here, for God knows what reason, and here I was. It's not my fault that he doesn't know what to do with me once he's got me.

Not missing a beat, my subconscious cued up a myriad of mental images of what Tristan could do with me. Potentially even in this very restroom.

 _That stall over there… No - coat check! Much more sanitary. A place like this must have a coat check._

My glared at my reflection as I chastised myself and pulled the brakes on that line of thinking.

When I retook my seat at our table, the first courses had arrived and Tristan's chair beside mine was vacant. I cast my eyes surreptitiously around the room, but saw no sign of him.

Teresa Smoot leaned over and spoke softly to me. "He excused himself a moment ago."

I forced myself to smile back, and turned my attention to our food. My plate was filled with several artfully crafted hors d'oeuvre that were almost too beautiful to eat. "This looks delicious."

"Oh yes, Chef Greg never disappoints."

"Greg Lorren, from Lime?"

Teresa beamed. "Yes, exactly. Have you been there already? I haven't had the chance."

"It's lovely, and the food is to die for." I was all the more eager to explore the delicacies in front of me, knowing they'd come from the same man behind the amazing dishes I'd devoured the week before.

After twenty minutes of appetizers and easily conversing with Teresa, the wait staff appeared to clear our plates and replace them with our main courses. Tristan was still nowhere to be seen.

His loss. I even eyed his plate, but left it alone under Teresa Smoot's close attention.

"Rory, dear," she began after we'd finished our meals. "I have a favor to ask."

"What is it?" I asked warily. Teresa had been kind enough to keep me engaged in conversation, making sure I wasn't left as the odd man out among our tablemates. She was the best kind of dinner guest, knowing just the right moments to pipe in and when to let others speak. I liked her, and had a feeling I wouldn't be able to say no to her request.

"My segment of the evening is coming up after dinner, and -"

"Your segment?" I interrupted, surprised.

"Yes, it will be my turn to speak."

"I didn't know that you would be involved tonight," I confessed.

"Oh, of course. My husband and I have been long-time supporters of the organization, since the first year that Mr. Donnel founded it."

I blinked dumbly, unable to hide my surprise. I'd had no idea that Future 50 was Tristan's from the evening began to slide into place. It certainly gave context to some of the greetings we'd received upon our arrival, and the looks that had been given to Tristan, and me by extension, throughout the evening. I become even more thankful that Tristan had avoided a grand entrance, knowing that photogs would be lined up outside, each vying for their shot.

Teresa was continuing before I could fully recover. "I was hoping that you might be able to help me with the auction we'll be having after dinner."

"Sure," I conceded, not entirely knowing what I was getting myself into. "What do you need me to do?"

"Don't worry about a thing, just follow me backstage in a few minutes and I'll show you where to go. I so appreciate your help, dear!"

"No problem." I turned back to my food with rapidly growing apprehension. To take my mind off my worries, I focused back on the most recent piece of the puzzle. Tristan Donnel, Founder of Future 50. Why hadn't he told me?

I had never known Tristan to be exactly forthcoming with information, but what possible reason could he have had not to tell me how involved he was in tonight's event? I was beginning to think that he kept things from me just to goad me, or see how I would react.

Teresa soon provided me with the opportunity to get my mind off Tristan and his games, but boy, had I ever been right about not knowing what I was getting myself into. When she'd mentioned an auction, I'd envisioned myself taking down bids or keeping records. I had certainly not imagined that I would end up as a prize to the highest bidder.

Nevertheless, I found myself huddled backstage with Tyler, Sophie, and Brooke, the last three remaining 'volunteers'. I listened nervously while Teresa Smoot continued her best impression of an auctioneer.

"I have twelve hundred, do I hear thirteen? Thirteen hundred, anyone? Going once for twelve hundred, going twice… Sold, for twelve hundred dollars to Mr. Keller."

Valerie walked off stage to kiss the man who'd just paid over one thousand dollars for a date with her.

 _That's some kiss. Did they know each other before the auction, or is he expecting that his twelve hundred bucks gets him a bit more than dinner and a movie?_

Next up was Tyler, who was purchased by a highly enthusiastic young woman in her late twenties. Sophie and Brooke each went for about fifteen hundred dollars each, and all too soon, I found myself taking a deep, calming breath and walking out onto the stage.

"Our last lucky bidders of the evening will have the chance for a date with the lovely Miss Rory Gilmore!" Teresa announced. "Step up, now, gentlemen - or ladies! I'm afraid I may have coerced Miss Gilmore into filling our last spot this evening. Let's make it worth her while! Shall we start the bidding at five hundred dollars?"

All I could do was stand there and try not to look too traumatized, watching in trepidation as the bids rose.

There seemed to be two major players in the bid, and neither were looking like terribly exciting prospects. The first was a gentleman probably in his early forties with a well-defined widows peak, and the second was the epitome of tall, dark and handsome. The former concerned me mildly with his appreciative glances, and the latter was becoming increasingly creepy each time he winked at me.

"I have nine hundred, do I hear one thousand? One thousand! Do I have eleven hundred? Eleven hundred, any- Yes! Eleven hundred dollars, for a date with the lovely Rory Gilmore! Do I hear twelve?"

The competition really seemed to be heating up between the two gentlemen, and I grew increasingly concerned.

"Thirteen hundred!" Teresa shouted victoriously. "Going once, for thirteen hundred! Going -"

"Two thousand." My eyes immediately sought out Tristan's as his voice rang through the air. He was making his way toward the stage from the back of the room.

"Ladies and gentleman, two thousand dollars!"

Mr. Widows Peak backed down, but Fabio eyed Tristan and upped the bid. To my horror, Tristan countered with five thousand dollars, and Fabio gave up with one last death glare to Tristan and a final wink to me. I blanched.

" _Sold,_ for five thousand dollars to Mr. Donnel!"

The audience applauded and my face burned with equal parts embarrassment and indignation while I climbed down from the stage. Teresa announced the band, and the partygoers wasted no time in coupling up on the dance floor. I could see Tristan trying to make his way through the crowd, but I stood my ground and made him come to me.

He stared down at me for a long moment before he shook his head. "I leave you alone for five minutes, and you go and get yourself in trouble."

"Five minutes?" I cried. "Do you have any idea what time it is? You left me alone for an hour and a half!"

His eyes darkened, but he didn't say anything. Instead he grabbed my elbow and managed to guide us closer to the dance floor. Swiftly and easily, as if I were a puppet and he was the master, he maneuvered us into the dance.

"No matter how long I was gone, that doesn't give you the excuse to allow yourself to be sold to Calvin Damons."

"I take it that Calvin Damons is Fabio?"

Tristan raised an eyebrow in question.

I nodded my head toward the man who had retaken his seat at a distant table. "Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome with the creepy smile and slimy disposition."

Tristan's eyes glittered with humor and he didn't fully manage to suppress his smile. "One and the same."

"I suppose I do owe you for saving me from that unfortunate fate, but that in no way means that I'm not still angry with you."

"You're angry with me? Is that the excuse you used to get yourself into this mess?"

"I was drafted to help the cause. _Your_ cause, as I recently found out." I glared up at him, remembering that I was still mad about that, too. There were a handful of things I was mad about, and it was becoming hard to keep track.

He ignored my ire. "You were all too willing to go on a date with a random stranger, but I had to trick and guilt you into coming on this one."

"It's not as if the date with a stranger could be much worse than this one."

His jaw clenched and he raked his hand through his hair in frustration. He drew in a deep breath and let it out before he answered. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"Excuse me? I think I'd like you to repeat that."

"You're right," he muttered again, only somewhat petulantly.

"And?" I reminded.

"And I apologize."

"Thank you," I acknowledged haughtily.

Our hands were interlaced as we danced amongst the crowd, and his other was warm at my back. When the band began a new song, he dropped my hand to pull me closer. I brought my free hand to the back of his neck while his settled on my hip with a steady weight that both comforted me and gave me goosebumps.

"I am sorry, Rory," he murmured against my hair. "Something came up. I didn't plan this. You didn't deserve this."

"I believe you." I couldn't tell him it was okay, because it wasn't, and I couldn't tell him I forgave him, because I hadn't yet. But as I gave in to the urge to let my cheek rest against his shoulder, I knew that I would. I just wasn't sure yet how I felt about that inevitability.

The swarm of other people on the dance floor gradually melted away from my awareness, and my consciousness narrowed down to Tristan. I could feel the heat of his hand on my back through the fabric of my dress. I relaxed and allowed my finger to graze against his bare neck, dipping just under the collar of his jacket. He increased the pressure of his hand at my back ever-so-slightly to pull me closer, and I acquiesced. With each breath, I inhaled his scent - sandalwood, and something else I couldn't quite place.

 _Why does he have to smell so good?_

After we swayed and spun to two more songs, I lifted my face when his chest rose and fell with a heavy sigh. "We have to go."

I remembered him giving a pick-up time to the driver. Had it been so long already? I was surprised to realize that I didn't really want to leave at that moment.

He lifted his hand from my hip and pushed my hair away from my face and behind my ear. I shivered when his knuckles brushed against my neck and trailed to my collar bone. When his hand finally fell away, I hastily gulped in oxygen, unaware that I'd been holding my breath.

 _Surely we can stay here, like this, for just a little longer. The driver will wait. Surely he's paid well enough._

Despite my inner protest, Tristan pulled away, and I felt his own reluctance in the way his hand lingered on the small of my back. Nevertheless, he used that hand to begin guiding me toward the exit.

"Aren't we going to stay for dessert?"

He transitioned seamlessly into that trademark smile, the one that promised mischief. "We can have dessert later, if you'd like."

I ignored his implication, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of getting a rise out of me. Although my heartbeat sounded loud in my own ears as the pace kicked up a notch, my logical side knew that he couldn't hear it.

I twisted away from his touch, stopping our path toward the exit. "I want to say goodbye to Teresa."

He glanced at his watch before his gaze flickered back to the table where the Smoots sat. "Fine. I have to make a phone call. I'll meet you in the hallway on the other side of that door."

He pointed at the side door that we'd entered through at the beginning of the night, and I nodded.

I made my way across the room and sidled up to our table to catch Teresa's attention. "We have to leave. I just wanted to thank you for the company, and say goodbye."

Teresa stood to give me a hug. "Rory, it's been my pleasure. Thank you for your assistance tonight, and I apologize for not being forthcoming about your task."

"No harm done," I assured her, and to my surprise, that was my true sentiment. I had to go on another date with Tristan, and I was neither enraged nor appalled at the thought.

 _Now there's something to ponder later. Much later._

Teresa gave me a knowing look. "Yes, you're a lucky girl. Don't you let that man give you any grief. He's a good one, but he doesn't seem to want that to be common knowledge, and sometimes he goes to great lengths to prove otherwise."

I stared at her, speechless. Who was Tristan to this woman? How did she know him? I got a hold of myself enough to respond. "I can handle myself. And him."

"I know you can, dear. It was lovely meeting you, and I hope to see you again soon."

I gave her a genuine smile, touched by her kindness. I bid her goodnight, and waved a hasty goodbye to the rest of the table before leaving the lavish ballroom to find Tristan.

Not five minutes later, he was ushering me once again into the back of the SUV that awaited us at the curb. Tristan sighed as we pulled away. "Just so you know, this evening hasn't exactly gone as I'd planned."

"What did you have in mind?"

"It certainly didn't involve you trying to sell yourself off to another man," he joked.

"If you hadn't left me to fend for myself for the entire night, then perhaps the whole situation could've been avoided."

"It wasn't the entire night."

"You missed dinner," I told him flatly.

"Damn, I bet it was good, too." He looked at me for confirmation, and I nodded enthusiastically. More seriously, he added, "Believe me, I would rather not have left you alone."

I could see that he meant that. Not for the first time, I wondered what was so important that he could hardly stay away from his phone for two minutes.

"But still, I didn't expect you to go running off to Calvin Damons," Tristan continued. He said the other man's name as if it were an expletive.

"I did not 'run off' with Fabio," I insisted. "Although if I had, it would have served you right."

"My concern in that scenario would not be for myself. Aside from the pleasure of another evening in your company, why do you think I was so quick to outbid him? I wouldn't trust him to take care of a cactus, let alone my – You."

"I'm still appalled that you spent five thousand dollars on me," I protested. "Primarily because I'm not fond of the idea of being sold and purchased like cattle."

He gave me a patronizing smile. "Five thousand dollars is not a big deal, trust me. Besides, it wouldn't look very good if I didn't contribute to my own charity, now would it?"

I supposed he had a point, but I couldn't get past the dollar signs. If five thousand dollars wasn't a big deal, what was? How rich was he, exactly? That was another thought that could be pondered at a later date. Or, you know, never.

"Just so we're clear, what your money gets you is a one-hour window of time to spend with me. In public."

"Interesting. I never would've taken you for an exhibitionist."

I ignored his goading. "An hour-long date in a public location, during which time there could very well be zero physical contact."

 _Although that might be sad._

"One hour is not a date," he scoffed. "Four hours."

"One and a half hours."

"Three hours," he countered.

"Two hours."

"Deal. And, just so we're clear, I am fully aware that _you_ can't be purchased." His azure eyes caught mine, and I could see the sincerity behind his teasing tone. Then he grinned. "Certainly not for only five thousand dollars, anyway."

"Glad we cleared that up." I smiled back at him before turning to watch the buildings pass by, looming over us, reaching up and into the night. I realized that we were not headed back the way we'd come. "Where are we going?"

Tristan had the good grace to at least pretend to look guilty. "I have to go to the office."

"Aren't we flying back?" I asked, confused. The drive back to Hartford would take more than two hours.

 _Hmmm. What will Tristan and I do stuck together in the back of a car for two hours?_

"We're going to the New York office," he clarified, saving me from that train of thought. "I've spoken with James, and he'll have Tango Delta waiting for us there. We'll fly back to Hartford after I finish tying up some loose ends."

The all-too-familiar annoyance bubbled up in me once more. "And did it occur to you to ask how I felt about this little detour?"

"It's unavoidable. I have to deal with an urgent situation. Luck prevailing, it'll only take about half an hour."

"That wasn't quite an apology," I pointed out stubbornly.

"Knowing you, I'm sure you have a book to keep you company."

"Look at me." I waved a hand at myself, indicating my small clutch as well as my person. "Where does it look like I'm stashing a book?"

His eyes roamed over my body, and he gave me a slow, crooked smile.

 _Okay, so I kind of brought that one upon myself._

"Since when do you not carry a book around?"

"Sitting alone and reading at social gatherings tends to be frowned upon as an adult. I'm not in high school anymore."

"I'm realizing that."

Before I could put much effort into deciphering his curious expression, the car pulled to a stop at the curb. I hurried to clamor out after Tristan, growing annoyed again as I tried to maneuver my way down from the SUV without tripping over my dress.

"If I'd known about this field trip, I could've brought along a change of clothes," I grumbled as I struggled out of the car, hitching my dress up so my heels wouldn't get tangled in the fabric. "Not to mention a _book_."

"That would be a shame," he said matter-of-factly, letting his eyes trail over me once more.

He saved me from having to respond when he turned abruptly to dismiss the driver. I took the opportunity to investigate my surroundings. The building itself was pretty indistinct, fitting in well with the rest of the corporate offices around us. 'Donnel Enterprises' was inscribed above the large glass doors. I tilted my head back to follow the line of the building, but found that it still towered above my line of sight.

I remembered thinking that the Hartford office was impressive and slightly intimidating, but it had nothing on New York. The prevailing themes of both offices were white stone and glass. I encountered enormous windows and marble floors everywhere I turned.

Tristan gestured ahead of him for me to enter the elevator, and he followed. He leaned across me to punch the button. As the doors closed, he shifted back to stand beside me, so close that the sleeve of his jacket was grazing my bare arm. I felt him with each breath either of us took. I forced myself to stand my ground rather than inch away, determined not to let him see how he affected me.

 _Which is not at all._

 _...Right?_

We endured the ride to the 43rd floor in a silence that grew louder with every floor we climbed. Tristan tilted his head infinitesimally to look at me out of the corner of his eye, and the corner of his mouth rose in a smile. My breathing was shallower than it should be, and I could feel my heartbeat in my throat.

When I thought I could bear the growing tension no longer, the elevator dinged and the doors opened to reveal a foyer outside what I assumed to be Tristan's office. To my surprise, the desk in the lobby was occupied by none other than Charlene.

She didn't skip a beat. "Good evening, Mr. Donnel, Miss Gilmore."

Tristan cleared his throat as we exited the elevator, then gestured for me to have a seat. "I'm sure Charlene has water, or -"

"Coffee?" I asked hopefully.

"I'll make some." Charlene scurried through a door opposite Tristan's office and disappeared.

"This shouldn't take more than thirty minutes," Tristan assured me.

An hour and fifteen minutes later, I ground my teeth in frustration as I made my fourth attempt at shoving my dollar into the vending machine. This time, I held my breath while it sucked the bill in, then banged my forehead against the glass when it spat it back out.

 _Dear Vending Machine Gods - if you would please just let me have my PopTart, I promise that I'll never, ever pay in all dimes ever again._

The only answer to my prayers was the angry whirring sound of the bill acceptor, and I stared abjectly as my dollar fluttered to the floor.

 _Nickels,_ I thought vengefully. _Nothing but nickels for you._

Swiping my dollar bill from the floor, I stomped back to Tristan's lobby and flopped pathetically into my chair. For at least the third time that night, I silently cursed Tristan for his minimalist preferences. At least if there was artwork on the walls, I might be able to distract myself.

I yanked my phone from my purse and began another game of Polar Bowling. In a good mood, it was fun to playfully slide the cute little polar bears into the holes in the ice. In a bad mood, it felt mean. Add another item to the Why I'm Mad at Tristan list: ruining Polar Bowling.

I heaved a dramatic sigh, and Charlene shot me a sympathetic look. "Mr. Donnel will be finished soon."

I sat up straighter. "If I go in there now, will I be interrupting?"

"He's on the phone."

"Any chance you know about how much longer he'll be?"

"As far as I know, the crisis is over and he's wrapping things up."

"Crisis?" I questioned innocently.

"I really can't give you much detail," she told me apologetically.

"Did it have to do with the Epsilon deal?" I was proud of myself for remembering the name mentioned earlier in the evening.

 _Rory Gilmore: 100% journalist, even off-duty._

Charlene narrowed her eyes at me and pursed her lips, seeming to try to judge how much she could disclose. She finally sighed. "Yes. I suppose there's not much harm in telling you now. The negotiations are finished, and Epsilon's employees will be included in the acquisition."

"The employees?"

"Yes, the company we bought had tried to negate the benefits of the acquisition by laying off their entire staff, but Mr. Donnel has managed to resolve the problem without renegotiating."

So this was the reason Tristan had been attached to his phone all night? He'd been saving jobs?

"How many employees?" I questioned.

"Counting both their offices, it would've been about 1200. The loss of the staff would've amounted to an invaluable financial loss."

 _While I'd been eating my chicken piccata, Tristan had been saving 1200 jobs._

"Would you let me know when he's finished, please?"

"Of course, Miss Gilmore."

I sat back in my chair, contemplating my most recent revelation about the man on the other side of the wall. I was having an increasingly difficult time reconciling my preconceived perceptions of him with all the new information I was acquiring.

He was arrogant, yes. Often infuriating, sure. But I'd also come to realize that he was generous, and possibly even good-hearted. Not in the obvious way, of course. On the surface he was an ass, but he seemed to be an ass with good intentions. I finally let myself consider whether the scales might be tipping in his favor.

My mind was still whirring when Charlene caught my attention. "You can go in now, if you'd like."

Tristan looked up from his computer as I entered, and he grimaced. I sat in one of the chairs in front of his desk while he finished typing before he turned to me.

"Look," he sighed. "I know you're pissed, and you're going to say I did this on purpose, but I swear I didn't."

"Would you be terribly offended if I choose my own words, rather than you putting them in my mouth?" I made sure that my tone was light, and he looked at me sharply, surprised.

"Like I said, this was not a part of the plan for this evening."

"I believe you. How much longer do you think we'll be here?"

"I'm done." He narrowed his eyes at me in wary contemplation. "I'm not going to lie, I'm not quite sure what to do with this. This was not the reaction I was expecting."

"I like to keep you on your toes."

He laughed. "Oh, you certainly do that."

"So, are we ready?"

He spared one more glance to his computer before heading for the door. "Let's go."

Charlene looked up expectantly as we exited. "Tango Delta is ready and waiting, and Mr. Wood asked me to remind you that there's a strong wind from the southeast."

"Thank you," Tristan replied.

 _So Charlene gets acknowledged with common courtesy. She must be special._

We bid goodbye to Charlene and made our way to the elevator. "Does that matter?"

"What?"

"The wind. Why did Mr. Wood need to warn you about the wind? Does that make the flight more difficult?"

"Not as long as the proper measures are taken."

"So he'll make sure they are?"

"Mr. Wood is not going to be our pilot back to Hartford."

"What? Who's flying, then?" I asked anxiously. I'd made it through my first helicopter flight with Mr. Wood, and that gave him a 100% success rate. I wasn't keen on the idea of putting my life in unproven hands.

"Me."

I coughed, choking on air. It came out as an incoherent sound that I hoped would convey my protest and disbelief.

"You'll be perfectly safe with me, I promise." Then he grinned and winked at me, clearly unable to help himself. "While we're in the air, at least."

The elevator ride wasn't long enough for me to regain my speech capabilities, and before I knew it, Tristan was ushering me through the cold night air toward the waiting chopper.

"Wait, wait!" I begged. "Are you trained to do this?"

He laughed at me as he guided me into the helicopter, into one of the front seats this time. He sat next to me and began to strap himself in, nodding his head for me to do the same.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am." He spoke in a patronizing tone. "Don't worry, I've been flying for years."

"But… but…" I stuttered and fumbled with my harness, anxious to get myself secured. Once I'd buckled everything in what I could only hope were the right places, I gripped the edge of my seat for good measure. Maybe if I kept hanging on, I could anchor myself to the ground and prevent my impending doom.

Tristan handed me a headset while he began his preflight checks, oblivious to my anxiety. I settled them quickly over my ears, eager to resume my death grip on my seat.

"Tango Delta to HFD, HFD standby."

I tuned out the jargon I didn't understand and focused on Tristan. At least he _looked_ like he knew what he was doing. I almost didn't dare say anything for fear of interrupting his process, but I couldn't help myself. "Are you sure you know how to do this?"

He turned and gave me his most self-confident grin, but it didn't have the heart-clenching effect it usually carried. "I'm positive. You ready?"

"What if I say no?"

"Trust me, Rory."

And with that, we lifted off the ground. I didn't know whether I could handle watching the ground drop away beneath us, so I kept my eyes shut.

 _Trust him? That's a high demand. Can I trust Tristan?_

It was a question I wasn't sure I was ready to answer. His voice continued to chatter through my headset, and I clung to the sound the same way I clung to my seat. Tentatively, I opened one eye and peered over at him. He looked competent enough. There were a few long moments of silence while we reached our flying altitude and he steadied the chopper before we began to leave the city behind us.

"You okay?" he questioned, glancing at me briefly before returning his attention to the screens and sky ahead.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and he only grinned wider at my reaction. "I don't know yet. I'll let you know when we land. _If_ we land."

"You're not getting out of our second date that easily," he teased.

"In what universe do you think tonight qualifies as a first date?"

"What would you call it, then?"

"It's been more akin to a hostage situation."

He chuckled, but I chastised him and made him pay attention to his task of hurtling us through the air. As I watched him work with confidence, his sexy crooked grin still playing across his lips, I began to come to grips with reality.

 _If I'm his hostage, I may be developing Stockholm Syndrome._

By the time we finally touched down in Hartford, I was too preoccupied to feel relieved. Whether this was a date or not, I could no longer deny that my opinions of Tristan were shifting and drastically affecting my view of him. I was barely paying attention as he shut down the helicopter and began to unbuckle himself from his seat, lost in my own thoughts.

When he noticed that I hadn't begun unbuckling, he reached over to help. My body tensed, and I held my breath. His hands worked adeptly so close to my body, and I wanted to feel the warmth of his skin against mine.

 _I'm a goner._

I let out a shaky breath when he finished, and he grinned down at me, offering his hand. "I thought you'd be more eager to get your feet back on the ground. Shall we?"

Not trusting myself to speak, I took his hand mutely and tried to muster as much grace as I could to exit the helicopter. Tristan supported some of my weight during the process, which made the dismounting process smoother but my heartbeat more uneven. He kept my hand in his after we'd both climbed out, and I shivered involuntarily.

Tristan looked down at me and furrowed his brow, then switched his grip on me so his arm was around my shoulder. "Didn't you bring a jacket?"

"Remember, I didn't know the night would include rooftop winds and helicopters."

"Next time I'll be more forthcoming about our plans so that you can prepare accordingly."

I gave a harsh laugh. "Yeah, right."

"What?" He raised his eyebrows at me in mock innocence, though he failed to keep a straight face. "Are you saying I'm uncommunicative?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

He shrugged. "I'm a man of few words."

"Now if that were true, then maybe we wouldn't have such problems."

"Who says we have problems? I like us."

Instead of mustering up a reply, I allowed myself to be guided to the door, which Tristan held open and ushered me through and out of the wind. I reached up to smooth my hair, but Tristan beat me to it.

He gently pushed my stray hair behind my ear while his thumb brushed against the skin of my neck. I would be surprised if he couldn't feel my heart beating under his touch, and I had to remind myself to breathe. He had leaned over to press the button for the elevator without breaking my gaze, and I couldn't tear my eyes away from his even when I heard the ding of its arrival. Tristan walked me back into the elevator, his eyes still not leaving mine.

"I meant it, you know," he said softly. "This evening didn't go as planned. I'm sorry about that."

His fingertips hadn't left the side of my neck, and he slowly traced a path to my chin, which he tilted up. I drew in a ragged breath and watched his eyes darken to a deep navy before my gaze fell to his lips.

"Maybe we can still salvage it," he offered. His voice was low, nearly a whisper. "End it on a good note?"

My breath was caught in my throat, and I couldn't speak around it. But I nodded.

With that, Tristan's mouth met mine, and I lost all capacity for coherent thought. His lips were soft yet demanding against my own, and his tongue swept across my bottom lip. I yielded instantly, opening my mouth to him while he pushed me back against the wall of the elevator.

My hands developed a mind of their own, and one ran through the hair at the nape of his neck while the other gripped his shoulder to hold him to me. Tristan held my head and my hip, maneuvering me as he saw fit, and for the moment, I was more than happy to be putty in his hands.

I squirmed slightly, trapped between his body and the wall, and he groaned low in his throat. His teeth lightly grazed my lower lip, and my hand tensed around the hard muscle of his shoulder, desperately seeking some way to relieve the building tension between us.

The elevator dinged again, and the doors opened to Tristan's floor.

I wrenched my lips away from his and drew in a much-needed breath of air as I released my hold on him. I was pleased to note the raggedness of Tristan's own breathing as he stood staring down at me, his eyes sparking with that same electric charge that crackled in the air around us.

Slowly, reluctantly, he let his hands fall away. His eyes began to lose a bit of the wildness I'd glimpsed, and he gave me his best cocky smile. While I focused on keeping my knees from shaking, all I could do was stare back at him.

"Well," he spoke, and I loved the delicious roughness of his voice. "Since you're so nice and quiet, I guess I'll say goodnight now. Unless you'd like to come in?"

"No." I shook my head vehemently, and wasn't entirely sure whether I was trying to convince him or myself of my conviction.

"Didn't think so," he grinned. "But you can't blame a man for trying."

He brought his hand up to touch my face once more, and began to lean in again, but seemed to change his mind. I was both disappointed and relieved, because I didn't know how much more of him I could handle and still let him walk away.

"Goodnight, Rory."

"Goodnight," I managed, proud that my voice didn't crack, though it was barely a whisper.

He stepped back and let the elevator doors close between us, never dropping my gaze. I reached out a shaky hand to touch the button for the lobby, then let my head fall back against the wall.

 _What is this man doing to me?_


	11. The Challenge

**Master of My Domain**

 **Disclaimer:** Gilmore Girls was created by ASP and is property of Warner Bros Television/Hofflund Polone/Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **A/N:** Ok guys. So I could've titled this chapter "The Contest", although Challenge is more appropriate in this context. But still… any Seinfeld fans in the house? Get ready to catch on to the meaning of the story title. ;-)

 **Chapter 11 - The Challenge**

Dani wore a smug smile while I drove us to work on Monday morning. I shot her another imploring look as we pulled up to the Courant's building and admonished her again. "Stop it!"

"I can't help it!" she laughed. "I so told you."

Her air of superiority had not faded from the night before when I'd regaled her with the tale of my Saturday evening with Tristan. I told her everything, no holds barred, up until and including the moment when I'd been half-tempted to end my 10-month dry spell against the wall of the private elevator of his building.

"I just knew that you two would be perfect together, if you finally gave it a chance."

"Whoa there, slow your roll. It's not like we're Nick and Nora or Ross and Rachel."

"Come on. It's obvious that you like him, you just need to admit it to yourself. That's when the real fun starts."

"You don't understand. From one moment to the next, I can't tell whether he's infuriating me or impressing me. It's so frustrating."

"Mm-hmm, I bet," she laughed. "Sounds like you two need to work off some of your frustration. You know what's good for that, don't you?"

"Sure. Kickboxing."

"Or?"

"Judo."

"That's a little closer, I guess. Judo's good for practicing your pinning techniques."

My imagination ran wild with images of practicing my pinning techniques on Tristan. But of course, there was no need for Dani to know that. I skillfully changed the course of the conversation by use of a blatantly diverting segue. All it took was a passing mention of her latest suitor and she was off on a Devon tangent, and we made it to the office without any more discussion of my own love life, or lack thereof.

After spending all day Sunday churning the idea of me and Tristan around in my mind, I was happy to settle into my Monday morning routine at my desk. I caught up on Angela's weekend escapades, helped a frantic Kevin track down the image for his story that had gotten lost in the paper's shared drives, and then got down to the business of sorting through my inboxes.

Aside from a press release detailing a craft show comprised solely of alpaca fur products - _Who knew?_ \- the most unusual thing I came across was a meeting request from David. He was typically more of an open-door-policy, stop-in-whenever kind of boss, so having a specific appointment on the calendar was a bit unusual. Nevertheless, I accepted the invitation for Thursday.

Around 3pm I arrived back at my desk with fresh coffee and a sandwich after tracking a story. Through the course of my busy day, I'd nearly managed to get all thoughts of Tristan out of my head, but my efforts were thwarted and I was back to square one when my eyes caught on one of the emails awaiting me in Outlook.

 _ **To: Rory Gilmore  
**_ _ **From: Tristan Donnel  
**_ _ **Subject: My Prize**_

 _ **Rory,**_

 _ **I'd like to collect on my winnings from Saturday's auction. When are you free? I recommend Wednesday, but remain open to alternatives.**_

 _ **I only ask that you don't keep me waiting too long – I'm not a patient man.**_

 _ **-TD**_

 _ **Tristan Donnel  
**_ _ **CEO, Donnel Enterprises  
**_ _ **(860) 232-7878**_

I stubbornly attempted to quell my bubbling excitement and the small thrill that ran through me at his words. Unfortunately I failed miserably, and I had to bite my lip to prevent a stupid giddy smile as I formulated my response, studiously ignoring Angela's curious glances.

 _ **To: Tristan Donnel  
**_ _ **From: Rory Gilmore  
**_ _ **Subject: Patience is a Virtue…**_

… _ **But yes, Wednesday is fine. I'm of the philosophy that it's best not to prolong the inevitable, and you did pay for me fair and square.**_

 _ **Please let me know what I can expect for the evening, and don't forget the requirements I discussed with you.**_

 _ **-Rory**_

 _ **Rory Gilmore  
**_ _ **Features, Hartford Courant  
**_ _ **(860) 232-0024**_

I'd told him that his money got him two hours, in public, and that any type of physical contact was not ( _necessarily_ ) included in the price. I crafted the email to serve as a not-so-subtle reminder. I didn't want him thinking that he could just kiss me and I'd cave in completely.

 _Oh, who am I kidding? Another kiss like that and I'll probably let him fly me to Rome in his death machine if that's what he wants to do._

Luckily for me, Kassner called me away from my desk just after I'd hit the send button, allowing my mind to retreat from the dangerous territory I'd ventured into. There was no doubt that my energies were better spent helping him nail down the details of an upcoming interview than rewinding and replaying the elevator scene on a continuous mental loop.

 _But hey, multitasking is a valuable skill - I can do both._

Assisting Kassner led to a request to accompany him on his interview, and after we got back I stopped by Kevin's desk to help him proof a story. By the time I got back to my computer, it was nearly 5:00, and I was embarrassed by how quickly I scanned my messages for the one I'd been waiting for.

 _ **To: Rory Gilmore  
**_ _ **From: Tristan Donnel  
**_ _ **Subject: Itinerary**_

 _ **Rory-**_

 _ **I want to assure you that I can respect ALL the parameters you've set for our date. I took the liberty of drafting an itinerary so that we can take full advantage of the two hours you've granted and, of course, abide by your rules.**_

 _ **7:30 pm: Arrive at Rory's apartment*  
**_ _ **7:35 – 7:50 pm: Travel time to PUBLIC restaurant**- no physical contact  
**_ _ **7:55 – 8:55 pm: Eat dinner while maintaining no less than 12" personal space  
**_ _ **8:55 – 9:00 pm: Leave restaurant / Maintain lack of physical contact  
**_ _ **9:00 – 9:15 pm: Travel time to Rory's apartment** – still no physical contact  
**_ _ **9:15 – 9:30 pm: Say goodnight at Rory's apartment* - without touching**_

 _ ***In the hallway, of course … Because the hallway is public domain  
**_ _ ****I can arrange for witnesses during the car ride, if you deem it necessary**_

 _ **Please don't hesitate (as if you would) to inform me of any issues you may have regarding these tentative plans.**_

 _ **Tristan Donnel  
**_ _ **CEO, Donnel Enterprises  
**_ _ **(860) 232-7878**_

I couldn't help but chuckle, even as I rolled my eyes at his biting sarcasm. With an urge to put him in his place and reaffirm the legitimacy of the parameters I'd set forth, I picked up the phone.

Charlene answered on the second ring. "Mr. Donnel's office."

"I'd like to speak to Tristan, please."

"Mr. Donnel is unavailable at the moment. May I take a message?"

"Yes. This is Rory Gil -"

"Oh, Miss Gilmore!" Charlene interrupted. "Hold on one moment, please."

Tristan answered within ten seconds. "Good afternoon, Mary."

With great willpower, I ignored his goading. "Are you screening your calls?"

"I can't accept every call that comes in, or I'd never get anything done. I'm a busy man."

I scoffed inelegantly. "Apparently not too busy to make up a ridiculous schedule for our date."

"Ridiculous, you say? May I ask which aspects of the itinerary you have a problem with? I went to great lengths to follow all of your rules."

"Quit playing with me."

"But I love to play with you."

 _This is getting me nowhere, and his playfulness is counter-productive to my mission._

I could only hope that if I clung to my resolve, stuck to the point, and didn't indulge him, he'd drop it and we could have a real conversation. "You promised to be more forthcoming with me this time, so I can prepare accordingly. I just want to know where we're going."

"The restaurant portion of the schedule is accurate. And I really will pick you up at 7:30. Does that work for you?"

"7:30 is fine. I'll email you my address."

"No need," he assured me.

"Do me a favor, and don't tell me how you know where I live."

He chuckled. "I'm a resourceful guy. We can leave it at that."

"So I guess I'll see you on Wednesday."

"Looking forward to it. Goodbye, Rory."

. . . . .

BY WEDNESDAY EVENING, I was a wreck. I'd tried to refuse to acknowledge how much I'd been anticipating the evening, but my resolve had steadily grown weaker as the clock ticked closer to 7:30.

I gave myself a last once-over in the mirror while I slipped on my heels. I'd gone with a black pencil skirt and a ruffly, cream-colored blouse, aiming to look good while leaving the impression that I hadn't tried to. For all he knew, I'd worn this to work and hadn't even bothered to change for our date. I certainly wasn't going to be the one to tell him the truth – and the truth was, I'd put thought and effort into looking good for him. And my efforts had paid off, if I did say so myself. I'd barely pulled on my shoes when I heard a knock at the door.

Without giving myself a chance to determine whether or not I was ready for this, I swung open the door to greet him. "Hey."

"Hey," he repeated. He stood in the threshold looking like he'd just walked off the cover of GQ. The whole dark suit, dark shirt, dark tie combination was really working for him, and his clear blue eyes regarded me calmly, if slightly amused, while I drank him in.

 _Pull it together, Gilmore. Stop ogling him and say something, for god's sake!_

"I hope I'm right in assuming that rooftops and helicopters are off the menu tonight, but will I need a jacket?"

The corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. "Yes."

I excused myself and left him standing in the entryway looking over my apartment. When I emerged with a cropped grey jacket, Tristan was peering at one of the many bookshelves that graced the living room.

"Everything from The Dharma Bums to Wuthering Heights. You don't really have a type, do you?" he mused.

"Maybe not a type, but good taste nonetheless."

He selected a book from the shelf and held it up in evidence. "Rob Lowe's autobiography?"

I snatched it back from him. "Okay, so maybe my standards slip now and then. Give me a break. I had a huge crush on him when he was on The West Wing."

"I'm not here to judge. Are you ready to go?"

"Almost, hold on." The talk of books had reminded me, and I grabbed his gifted copy of The Final Days off the kitchen table and handed it to him. "Here, I've been meaning to give this back to you. I can't keep it."

He frowned down at the book, then at me. "Can't, or won't?"

"Can't," I insisted.

"I gave it to you. That would imply that you _can_ keep it. What's stopping you?"

"It's too much," I told him flatly. "It was a nice gesture, and you succeeded in your plan to get me to call you, but it's served its purpose and now you can have it back."

"I don't want it back. I wanted you to call, yes, but I also gave it to you because I want you to have it." He tried to give it back, but I held up my hands and backed away.

"I'm not taking it."

"Take the damn book!"

"I don't want it!"

His eyes flashed, and he tossed the book onto the couch before he abruptly turned and slipped out of the apartment, closing the door gently behind him. All I could do was stand there and watch in bewilderment and growing horror.

 _You chased him away. You ruined this! Would it have killed you to just shut up and give him a chance?_

I didn't have too long to berate myself before a knock sounded at the door. My heart leaped into my throat and I strode quickly to answer it.

Tristan stood in the threshold with a neutral expression. "Good evening. Are you ready to go?"

"What?" I blinked at him, dumbstruck.

"We have dinner reservations. Shall we?"

"What are you doing?"

"We're starting over," he said plainly, as if the answer were obvious.

"What do you mean?" I asked again, growing impatient with my lack of understanding.

This was one of my biggest problems with Tristan, I realized. I didn't like that he could surprise me so easily, and I couldn't prepare myself for his next move. And yet, that was also a big part of what made him exciting.

"Look," he began, running his hand through his hair. "I know our last date didn't exactly go smoothly, but there was definitely something at the end that I found intriguing."

His eyes were alight with teasing and interest and I had to quell the heat that tried to erupt in the pit of my stomach at the memory of our kiss. I couldn't argue with him, so I simply waited for him to continue.

"It's something I intend to explore further. That's why tonight, we're going to forget about our history. Pretend we've just met. We have no prejudices or preconceptions of each other." He grinned. "And when I say we, I mean you."

I rolled the idea around in my mind while I looked up at him.

"Alright," I said slowly. "Then it's nice to meet you, Tristan."

I held out my hand, expecting him to shake it in keeping with this little game of his, but instead he enveloped my hand in his and pulled me out the door. "Let's go."

There was a small Hybrid SUV waiting at the curb outside my building, and Tristan moved to open the back door for me. "You're not driving?"

"I thought I might want to drink. You do have that effect sometimes, you know."

I rolled my eyes at him as I climbed into the backseat, and he followed. I vaguely recognized the man behind the wheel, but it took me a moment to place him. I'd spoken to him in the lobby of Tristan's apartment building.

"Where are we having dinner?" I asked.

"I thought we'd just go to the mall food court. Is that public enough for you?" he teased.

"That's cool. I love Auntie Anne's pretzels."

"I'll even spring for the cheese sauce."

"What a gentleman."

Somehow I could not picture Tristan sitting in a sticky plastic chair in the mall food court. It was a sight I would probably be willing to pay good money to see, but the car pulled up outside a significantly more upscale restaurant. Tristan lived up to the gentleman's code by opening doors and being generally polite while we followed the hostess to a small corner booth.

"So, Rory," Tristan began, giving me a playful smile. "Tell me about yourself. Where'd you go to school?"

I started to give him a droll look, but he raised his eyebrows at me and I sighed.

"I grew up in Stars Hollow, a town not too far from here. I attended high school at Chilton Prep Academy."

"Hm, I think I've heard of it."

"Yeah, it's a great school. Some of the students were obnoxious, though. Spoiled rich kids - you know the type."

He grinned knowingly. "Sounds awful."

"It was, but somehow, I managed to make it through. After that, I went to Yale. Also not too far from here."

"Great school," he acknowledged. "I went to Yale, myself."

"You don't say?"

We kept up our bit until we were through with the information we already knew about each other, and then began to steadily progress into new territory. I gave him a brief synopsis of my time on Obama's campaign trail, and my history at the Courant. Tristan ordered a bottle of wine and a sushi platter appetizer from the waitress.

"What about you?" I took a sip from my water and waited for his answer.

"What about me?"

"You now know more about me than I do about you, and that's not fair. Fess up."

"There's not much to know. I started a business in my freshman dorm room, and by the time I graduated, there really wasn't much else I could do. Not that I didn't want it, but I didn't know it would grow so big, so quickly. It was easier than I expected."

I laughed. "Creating and managing a billion-dollar corporation was easier than you expected?"

"It gives me a chance to do the work that I care about, and it just takes a little dedication. Discipline and hard work are par for the course at Camden Military Academy. I was prepared."

"So you really did go to military school?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Is that where you graduated?"

He nodded. "I petitioned for emancipation after a year there, but I wanted to finish my education there. It was a good school. So I also applied for a scholarship and found a couple part-time jobs to get me through my last year there, before I moved back north for undergrad."

"So, this whole emancipation thing," I began tentatively, keeping a cautious eye on him for his reaction. "What was that all about?"

Tristan ran his hand through his hair and shrugged. "It's complicated. I won't bore you with the details. Suffice it to say, I never got along with my father. Or any of my stepmothers, for that matter."

I hadn't known that Tristan's dad wasn't married to his mom, but I tried to suppress any reaction in order to let him continue.

"My mother died when I was born," he clarified. "Since then, my father has been married five times. I've heard that he divorced the last woman he was with, but I guess I don't know for sure. I've only spoken to my father twice in the last decade. Once when my grandfather died, and once after college graduation when he tried to convince me to sell my company and come work for him."

I couldn't help my look of disbelief. "No way."

Tristan laughed. "Yes, that was my sentiment, as well."

I had no idea how to respond to the intense course the conversation had taken, but I was saved by the appearance of a waiter with our bottle of wine. He made a show of presenting the label to Tristan, then pouring a small amount into his glass. Tristan tasted it obligingly before nodding to the waiter, who proceeded to pour glasses for each of us.

Our waitress dropped off our appetizer, an elegant plate of sushi and sashimi that looked artful and decadent. We gave her our meal orders, and then we were alone again.

"That's enough about me," Tristan insisted. "How's your mom?"

"She's great," I answered, unable to keep the smile from my face. "Really great. She co-owns and runs the Dragonfly Inn in Stars Hollow, and she's really put it on the map. It's been rated among the Top Five Inns in Connecticut for the past seven years running, and last year it made it onto the list of the top 10 boutique inns on the east coast."

"Good for her," Tristan acknowledged.

"She's happily married to the love of her life, and I have a two-and-a-half-year-old little brother."

I helped myself to a piece of California roll, and took the chance to look at Tristan – really look at him. He noticed and gave me a small smirk over the top of his wine glass before he took a sip.

I kept stealing glances at him as we ate, studying him. We discovered that we shared a love of music from Van Morrison to Meat Loaf, a hatred of reality television, and a morbid fascination with the slew of Hollywood remakes that had been sweeping the nation's box offices.

By the time the check arrived, I was doing a great impression of someone on a first date. We'd ate, drank, and laughed. I'd stood by my word to put preconceptions aside, and found myself actually learning quite a bit about this new Tristan - the man, versus the boy I used to know.

 _Or did I? Did we ever really know each other back then?_

We stepped out into the cool night air and I was surprised to note that the car wasn't at the curb. Tristan took my elbow and we turned left down the sidewalk.

"Where to now?"

"I have a surprise."

I didn't know whether I liked his cryptic response. "What kind of surprise?"

"I think we've been doing pretty well so far. There's been a minimal amount of harassing and name-calling, and you haven't thrown a drink in my face or anything. I know we're coming up on our two-hour mark, but I think we can make it through another hour or so, don't you?"

"Once a rule-breaker, always a rule-breaker," I teased, but moved to follow him anyway.

He stopped short and looked down at me. "That was a real question. You say the word, and we end here. Graham can be here within five minutes to take you home."

"Graham?"

"My driver," he answered simply. He pushed further, having seen through my blatant stalling tactic. "What do you say, Rory? It's up to you. Do you want to stay and see this through?"

 _This is it. The moment of truth. What's a girl to do?_

"I want to," I admitted softly.

I was rewarded with one of Tristan's best grins. He took my arm and we continued in the direction of Bushnell Park.

It was that perfect time of year when the fall leaves hadn't been completely blown away yet, lingering to crunch satisfyingly under our feet, and yet the bare tree branches that loomed around and above us were already dressed in twinkling white Christmas lights.

"Are you warm enough?" Tristan asked, glancing down at me.

"I'm fine. I was just thinking about how quickly the season is changing."

"Tell me about it. Where did the fall go? Did we get one this year?"

"I know what you mean. I feel like it was just a couple weeks ago when the leaves were starting to change color, and now they're already gone."

"I guess that explains why I missed it. I was in London for three weeks up until the day you came to interview me."

"Do you travel often?"

He shook his head. "Not too often. My trips aren't usually that long, but we're in the middle of some major publishing acquisitions and a lot of the companies we're looking at are based there."

"So do you travel for leisure, then?"

"Some," he answered vaguely. "What about you?"

"A little. I went backpacking through Europe with my mom after high school, and then I did it the prim and proper way with my grandmother during college. I traveled to Asia with a friend a few years ago, but we had limited time and means, so we didn't see nearly enough."

"What's your favorite place you've visited?"

"Tough call." I drew in a deep breath of the crisp fall air and walked in silence for a few more paces while I thought about it. "I'm torn between Prague and Berlin. Have you been?"

"Yes to both."

"What about you? What's your favorite place to visit?"

"Same as you, it's a tie. Prague is definitely up there. Along with Dublin. Bali. Ankara. Thessaloniki. Phnom Penh. Fez."

"Fez?" I interrupted.

"Have you been?"

"No. I've only dreamed of it."

"You want to go?"

"Of course. To all those places. You just rattled off about a tenth of my bucket list cities."

"What are we waiting for? I'll fire up the jet."

 _Of course. I suppose it's easy to be well-traveled when you have access to a fleet of private aircraft._

"Don't tell me you'd be flying that, too."

He grinned. "No. I'm only licensed for helicopters."

A light breeze shook the branches around us, biting through my light jacket and making me shiver. Tristan smoothly shifted his grip on me to bring his arm around my shoulders, pulling me close to his body. The warmth was immediate and I shamelessly pressed myself against him.

I hadn't been paying much attention to where he was steering me, and as we drew nearer the heart of the park, the lights grew fewer and farther between. Most of the park's attractions were already closed for the winter months, and we were the only two people around.

"So, this surprise you mentioned. Does it happen to include murdering me and disposing of my body in the lake?"

"Damn. Now I'm going to have to think of something else."

"Seriously, where are we going? Everything is closed for the season."

"Not for us." We rounded the corner, and directly ahead I spotted the carousel house. The bright lights spilled out from the pavilion and onto the path ahead of us, casting light and shadows across the trees.

I stopped in my tracks and stared. This wasn't right – the carousel should've shut down two weeks ago. I looked back up at Tristan and found him watching me.

"You really are trying to kill me," I accused.

"What?"

"Didn't you ever watch _Are You Afraid of the Dark_?"

"Are you kidding? I grew up in the 90's, same as you. Of course I did. What does that have to do with anything?"

"The carousel," I explained, drawing closer to it as I explained the story. "There was an episode about a haunted antique carousel that threw people off of it."

"I must've missed that one." He followed me inside the pavilion, which was lit up brightly with white and colored flashing lights.

"Count yourself lucky, because you'd never look at a carousel the same way again," I told him in all seriousness. Nonetheless, I turned back to him with a smile. "This is all for us?"

He nodded. "Although now you have me second-guessing the decision."

"Just don't look at the horses too closely. They've got crazy-eyes."

Tristan laughed, shaking his head and likely doubting the life choices that led him to this night, with me.

"So are we going to ride, or what?" he asked. "Do you want to take your chances?"

"Let's get this thing started."

I hopped up on the carousel platform, seeking out a suitable steed while Tristan punched buttons on the ride control box. Moments later the machine came to life. He ran and grabbed a railing, pulling himself up as the carousel started to move.

"Did you used to work as a summer carny or something?"

"No. The man I made arrangements with for tonight emailed me the instructions for the control box."

I had a moment of being touched by the forethought that had gone into planning this evening. I turned back to the task at hand before I became more distracted by Tristan's newfound thoughtfulness.

I'd chosen a speckled grey horse and was trying to figure out how to get up into the saddle with the limitations of my pencil skirt. Tristan hoisted himself onto a black stallion next to mine and watched my efforts in amusement. I ended up waiting for the gears to lower my horse as close to the platform as possible before jumping up and scrambling to end in a side-saddle position. Tristan applauded.

"I blame you for this." I pointed an accusatory finger at him. "Once again, you failed at full disclosure, so I couldn't dress appropriately for the evening."

"If I'm not mistaken, you're the one who vetoed my original itinerary."

"Please," I scoffed. "That itinerary was a joke."

"Ouch, that hurts. I spent a good two and a half minutes on that."

"Oh, you should've said so. I'm so sorry that you wasted those precious 150 seconds. Now when will you find the time for that coulrophobia cure you've been working on?"

"I decided that I should just tell the coulrophobes to grow a pair and turn my attentions to better use. Like curing the fear of carousels."

"It's not a fear, per se," I argued. "More like a general wariness."

"True. Carousels are notoriously dangerous. I bet there are at least one persons injured every decade. Those aren't odds that you want to mess with."

"Bite me," I grumbled petulantly.

"Don't ask if you can't handle the follow-through."

My eyes shot to his while a wave of heat washed over me. I knew that my blush would show, and I couldn't force myself to formulate a response. To be fair, I was a bit preoccupied, what with the barrage of mental images born from his words.

"Besides, what fun would it have been if I'd told you?" Tristan was continuing the conversation as if he hadn't just started a chain reaction that would lead to spontaneous combustion. "I think you could benefit from a little spontaneity."

"I'm not saying there's anything wrong with being spontaneous, I'm just saying… I don't know how I'm going to get down from here."

Tristan chuckled, but he slid smoothly off his mount and came around to stand before me. With both hands on my hips, he easily lifted me up and set me gently back on my feet, keeping his grip on me and continuing to support my weight while I steadied myself on my high heels.

"Thanks," I breathed.

"No problem. But watch out there, Tex. That horse of yours looks like it's contemplating an attack."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

"How mature. That sounds like a challenge." I raised an eyebrow at him.

"Take it how you want." A slow grin crept across his face. "I'll just be over here…"

And with that he darted away, using a horse as a shield when I lunged for him. He weaved and dodged between the horses. The yellow-white lights from the canopy lit the entire pavilion and the colored lights danced with us while we acted like children. I chased him to the best of my ability, but it wasn't long before I collapsed onto the bench of one of the chariots, laughing.

"You have an unfair advantage," I told him as he came to sit beside me. "I'm not really dressed for a foot race. You try running around a moving platform in these heels."

"I'll pass, thanks. They look better on you, anyway."

I gave him an exaggerated batting of my eyelashes. "Thanks for noticing."

"A man would have to be dead not to notice."

Tristan's outer thigh was flush with mine, and his arm rested on the seat back behind me, brushing against my hair. His body was warm, and my skin began to tingle at every point that we touched. My gaze fell to his mouth, and though I'd tried to deny it, I knew that this was the moment I'd been waiting for since he'd kissed me in the elevator 92 hours ago.

 _But who was counting?_

I watched Tristan swallow, and I peered back up at his eyes, thrilling at the undisguised desire I saw there. One of his hands had moved to my waist, settling on my hip just beneath my jacket. I reveled in the feel of his warm skin through my blouse, and I shivered again, though not from the cold this time.

I wasn't sure when my eyes had fallen to his mouth again, but I saw his lips part slightly as I leaned in, mere milliseconds before I closed my eyes and gave in.

His lips brushed over mine, and I brought a hand up to his neck, drawing him closer. His mouth pulled at mine, and I acquiesced by opening to him, ready to take the kiss deeper.

And that's when he pulled away. I opened my eyes to find his, only inches away, looking down at me.

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and his voice was low and rough when he spoke. "Sorry. I stepped outside one of your parameters about physical contact."

"I should've known better - give you a rule, and of course you'll find a way to break it," I teased. My fingers slid further up his neck and into his hair, my nails scraping lightly against his scalp as I watched his eyes fall closed in pleasure.

When he opened them again, I saw a challenge in them. "You think so, do you?"

"I know so. Some things never change."

"I think this is an opportunity for a lesson, Miss Gilmore. I can abide by your rules, and I'll prove it. I'm not going to touch you again until you ask me to."

I started to laugh, but then he withdrew his hand from my hip and pulled away from me, smirking.

 _You had to go and blab about the stupid rules, didn't you? Now look what you've done!_

"You might be waiting awhile," I replied haughtily. I played it cool, removing my hand from him and bringing it back down into my lap.

"We'll see about that."

He shifted his arm away from my shoulders to the back of the seat, leaving space for the cool air to settle between us. Although we were no longer touching, my body hummed with awareness of how close he still was. I studiously ignored it.

"So now what?" I asked, pretending to be unaffected. "Did you also pull strings to keep the skating rink open late? Is that our next stop?"

He glanced at his watch. "Actually, Graham is probably waiting for us. You ready?"

I nodded, and together we stood from the bench, still maintaining our distance. The carousel ride had come to a stop, and Tristan jumped down from the platform and then held his hand up to help me down. He kept my hand in his as we started down the path back toward the street.

 _Hmm. So_ some _physical contact is okay; holding hands included. Where will the line will be drawn?_

The car ride home seemed interminable. That was primarily because I couldn't shake the overwhelming awareness of Tristan's every move in the seat next to me. Although I focused on gazing out my window, I couldn't help but sneak glances at him from the corner of my eye, and nearly every time I looked, I caught him doing the same. I tried and failed to suppress the smile that tugged at my lips each time our eyes met. On the fourth occasion, I couldn't help it - I laughed, and Tristan grinned.

I looked back out my window just in time to see us pull up in front of my building. I turned back to Tristan, preparing to thank him for dinner, but found him already climbing out his side of the car. I'd barely had a chance to unbuckle my seatbelt and open my door before he was there, holding it open for me and offering me a hand down.

"You're not coming up to my apartment," I couldn't help telling him.

He smirked. "Only walking you to the door. The hallway is public domain, remember? That's well within the rules."

He stayed true to his word, walking me up to my apartment and then watching while I unlocked the door and stepped inside. He stayed outside the threshold, and I turned to look up at him.

"Thank you for tonight."

"It was my pleasure. Best five thousand dollars I've ever spent."

"Don't remind me," I pleaded.

"It's not my fault that this was the only way I could get you to agree to go out with me. I'd have paid way more than that to win this date. Although maybe you'll go easy on me and agree with less coercion next time."

"Next time?"

"I sure as hell hope so. What do you say? Can I see you again?"

If I were being honest with myself, I'd admit that I had already made this decision the moment I'd agreed to continue the date after dinner. That was the moment that I'd fully transitioned away from being with him out of any sense of obligation, and into being with him only because I wasn't ready for the evening to end. If I were being even more honest with myself, though, I'd have to admit that this had never been about the obligation. I knew that I could have said no at any point. But I hadn't wanted to.

"Yes," I answered.

Tristan grinned. "I was fully prepared to continue to come up with excuses to see you if needed, but I'm glad that we can put all that behind us."

"What were some of the excuses?" I asked out of curiosity.

"I'll tell you next time."

"I've already agreed to see you again. You don't need to leave me hanging or keep playing games."

"Call this my insurance policy. You can't blame a guy for being cautious." He braced both of his hands against the door jamb and leaned in, looming over me. "Besides, there's still the matter of your rules to contend with. I still need to work on getting you to rescind them."

"You're serious."

"Shocking, isn't it?" he deadpanned. "But yes, even I can be serious when the occasion calls for it. I fully intend to be the one to prove you wrong, for a change."

"You're really not going to kiss me?" I couldn't keep the surprise out of my tone.

He smiled cockily. "No. It's against the rules. But don't worry - I don't expect them to last long."

I laughed at his arrogance. "You think so, do you?"

"I can be very persuasive."

"I can be very stubborn."

He chuckled. "You don't say?"

"I won't break that easily," I insisted. "In fact, I'm certain that you'll be the one to break the rule before I rescind it."

"Hmm. We'll see about that." With his arms still braced on the door frame, he leaned down even closer, holding my gaze until his face was within inches of mine. "Challenge accepted."

My pulse picked up, and I held my breath for several heartbeats. I was already mentally cursing myself for turning this into a challenge, let alone for laying down the damn rule in the first place. Tristan's nose grazed my skin as he moved his mouth to my ear.

"Goodnight, Rory," he spoke. His low voice seemed to reverberate through me and nearly had my body humming like a tuning fork.

He pulled away and reached past me for the door handle, giving me one last smirk before pulling it closed. I stood there for several long seconds, staring at the door.

 _What have I just gotten myself into?_


	12. On the Rocks With Salt

**Master of My Domain**

 **Disclaimer:** Gilmore Girls was created by ASP and is property of Warner Bros Television/Hofflund Polone/Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **A/N:** The previous chapter was posted while FF's alert system was down, so if you rely on story alerts for new chapter updates, make sure you've read Chapter 11 before diving into this one! :-)

 **Chapter 12 - On The Rocks With Salt**

As soon as Tristan had left, I scurried across the hall to knock on Dani's door. I heard her call out that it was open, so I let myself in. She hurried toward me from the hallway that led to her bedroom, an anticipatory gleam in her eyes.

"So? How was it?" she demanded.

I sighed and collapsed on her couch without an answer.

"That good, huh?" she laughed. "Or, wait - is that bad? Was it bad?"

"It was decidedly not bad. Although I think I'm in trouble."

Dani launched herself onto the couch beside me. "What does that mean?"

"I somehow got myself into a game that I definitely shouldn't be playing with him."

He eyes widened. "Do tell!"

"It's nothing salacious," I quickly amended. "Not yet, anyway. That's kind of part of the problem."

"Come on, don't leave a girl hanging. Quit beating around the bush - out with it already! What happened?"

"It all started with that stupid email itinerary he sent me," I began, then corrected myself. "No, that's not right. I actually started it before that. Last Saturday, when we were talking about the date that he'd bought, I told him that I was only agreeing to a date in public, with no physical contact."

"What are you talking about?"

I shook my head at Dani's confused look. "I was joking. Mostly. Since he'd bought and paid for me in that damn auction, I didn't want him to think that his five thousand dollars entitled him to any weird lady-of-the-night business."

"Wait, hold on," Dani interrupted. "Five thousand dollars?"

I winced. "I guess I hadn't mentioned that part before, huh? That's how much he bid for me."

"Holy shit. So this guy's really loaded."

"Did the part about the private helicopter not already confirm that? Or the part about being the CEO of a billion dollar company?"

"Okay, point taken. Continue. So, you laid some ground rules to make it clear that he wasn't buying sexual favors or anything."

"Right. So when he emailed me about the plans for tonight, he poked fun at my rules, and then when he broke one, of course I had to remark on it, and -"

"Wait, wait," Dani interrupted again. "Which rule did he break? The staying in public or the physical contact? Or both? Oh my god, did you take him home?"

"No! Well, kind of. But no. He didn't come in. He kissed me, and I called him a rule-breaker, and then he said that to prove me wrong, he's not going to do it again until I ask him to."

"Oh my god," Dani breathed, her eyes going wide. "He threw down the gauntlet."

"Nope, I think that was me," I groaned miserably. "I told him that I wouldn't be the one to cave, but that I didn't believe he'd hold out. I should've known that he'd take that and turn this into some sort of twisted challenge."

"This is just so -" Dani stopped abruptly when we both heard a sound from behind her closed bedroom door. My eyes shot to hers, and she had an unmistakable deer in the headlights look.

"Dani?" I questioned. It was my turn to give her a raised eyebrow.

"Hm? Oh, you know what, I think I left my book on the thing, and it must have fallen."

"Uh-huh," I teased. I hopped off the couch and began to approach the hallway to her room. Dani hurried to try to flank me and cut me off, but I was persistent.

Upon reaching the entry to the hall, she flung out her arms and gripped the walls on either side, blocking the entrance. "Move along. Nothing to see here. Carry on."

"Danielle Rose Lamonte!" I laughed. "You have a man in there!"

"Shh!" She herded me back into the living room. "We're not talking about my man, we're talking about your man."

"Tristan is not _my_ man," I argued. "Besides, I'm not the one hiding the guy in my bedroom. It's Devon, I presume?"

"Yes."

"Why are you hiding him away? When do I get to meet him?"

"He's in there on the phone. He had a conference call tonight with Tokyo."

"How worldly of him. And he didn't want to take the call from the comfort of his own home? Or his office?"

"I'm a goner," she laughed. "We've barely spent any time apart since we met."

"Wow. You really like this guy, huh?"

Dani buried her face in her hands and nodded, then looked back up at me with a giddy grin.

"About time you've found someone worthy of holding your attention," I told her.

"What about you? Is Tristan going to hold your attention?"

Seeing as I couldn't get him out of my head, and I still broke out in goosebumps when I remembered the way his mouth had grazed my ear, the answer to her question was obvious. Still, just because it was obvious to me didn't mean I was ready for it to be obvious to anyone else.

"We'll see," I answered instead.

I left Dani's apartment and slipped back across the hall, planning to use work as an excuse to get out of my head for a while, hoping it would be enough of a distraction to save me from the restless night I had a feeling was in my future if I couldn't erase the memory of the heat of Tristan's body against mine.

 **. . . . .**

OVER THE NEXT two days at work, I ended up getting my wish for a distraction. And then some.

The flu had struck the Hartford Courant, and though I was thankfully immune for the time being, I ended up with five extra stories on my plate, passed along from colleagues who couldn't drag themselves out of bed. On Thursday alone, I racked up a little over two hundred miles in my car, dashing back and forth across town for four interviews. My schedule had been steadily slipping out of my control, and by the time I had the pedal to the metal on my way to my fourth and final interview of the day, I was late. I _hated_ being late.

I wouldn't have any time to brush up on my notes before meeting with Mr. Roberts, so I couldn't avoid making a call to Kevin via the handsfree Bluetooth while I zipped through traffic.

"Hey, Rory," he croaked. His nasally, raspy voice resonated in the small space of my car, and I winced.

"You sound awful. I'm sorry to bother you."

"I feel worse than I sound," he told me. "But I'm glad to be bothered. Anything to distract me from feeling like I might die at any moment."

"Geez. Maybe I should call Kassner instead."

"Don't you dare," Kevin told me. The threat had started out vehement, but degraded into a coughing fit. I winced again as Kevin covered the phone and I listened to his muffled coughing. There was a brief pause before he came back over the speaker during which I wondered whether I needed to be calling 911. He came back with a wheeze.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"Peachy. Now tell me what's up. And tell me you're sitting in the parking lot, about to head up for my interview with Mr. Roberts."

"I'm almost there," I told him, hoping I sounded reassuring.

"The interview that starts in seven minutes," he repeated sharply. "The interview that I spent three weeks securing, and that cost me $150 in fruit baskets to Mr. Roberts' assistant."

"I've got it covered," I repeated. I glanced at my phone and grimaced, noting the friendly GPS icon indicating that I'd arrive at my destination in eleven minutes. "I was hoping you could give me a refresher before I go in. I read your notes and question outline this morning, but I've had three other interviews today, and everything is starting to blur together in my mind."

Kevin rehashed the outline of his story and his goals for the interview. Mr. Roberts was the Superintendent of the Glastonberry School District, and he'd made it onto the Courant's radar after a couple of parent protests over standardized testing. Kevin reminded me of his goals. I had his list of questions, which were fairly standard.

I gave the car some extra gas as I skirted around a soccer mom's minivan then darted back into the fast lane of traffic while Kevin concluded his recap. "Got it. Thanks for the catch-up and the pep talk."

"You're on your way in the door to see him, right?"

"Right."

 _Five blocks to go_.

"Rory," Kevin warned.

"Don't worry. I'm on it."

"I know. If anyone else had pulled this interview, I would've rented a Hazmat suit and dragged myself out in public to do this myself. But I trust you."

"That's touching," I told him, somewhat flatly, in return for his admission of trust that had sounded begrudging. "And on that note, I should let you go so you can rest."

"Wait!" he exclaimed. The outburst led to another fit of coughing before he pulled himself back together. "Don't hang up yet. I know you're not at the Glastonberry building yet. I keep hearing your engine revving."

"I'm working on it, okay?"

"I know. That's not what I meant. I just don't want you to hang up yet. I can't watch another minute of daytime television."

"Can't say I can blame you, there."

"Tell me about Sage," Kevin requested.

"Who?"

"Sage Resources. You haven't looked into them yet?"

"Never heard of them."

"I gave you a lead last week," he reminded me. "The day of your Donnel interview."

I combed my memory, wondering what the heck happened. I systematically read and categorized all of the leads in my email and on my desk every day. Hard to believe I would've missed one of them.

"Did you email it to me?" I asked, stumped.

"I wrote it on a sticky note and gave it to you."

I resisted the urge to smack my hand to my forehead, and grimaced instead. "I'm sorry. I do remember that, now. I haven't followed up yet."

I whipped into the parking lot of the school administration building and pulled into the first parking spot I could find. This wasn't a time to be picky about parking.

"No problem," Kevin said. "I just thought it sounded interesting. Keep me posted when you follow up."

"You got it," I told him. "Listen, I have to run now."

"Yeah, and you mean literally. Your interview started thirty seconds ago."

I disconnected the phone, grabbed my bag from the front seat beside me, and hit the ground running. Luckily, the parking lot was devoid of anyone to witness my fifty-yard dash. I slowed a bit for decorum's sake as I swung through the doors at the main entrance, and made my way directly to the sign-in desk.

 **. . . . .**

I DRAGGED MYSELF through the door to my apartment at nearly 8:30pm on Friday. It had been another hectic day with staffers still out sick. I'd been on my way out of the office when Jeff had gotten word of a parent protest at another local Middle School; the third in as many weeks. We'd immediately run out the door to cover it and I'd spent the last four hours standing in the cold talking to protesters and witnesses. My feet hurt, and I was starving.

I tried to shove my unruly hair out of my face while I tossed my keys on the side table. When I turned around to set down my purse, I let out a highly undignified yelp.

"Holy crap!" I pressed my hand against my chest as if that would stop my frantic heartbeat.

"That's not a very polite way to greet someone," Tristan mused. He sat at one of the breakfast stools with his arms crossed on my kitchen island.

"You scared the hell out of me. What are you doing here? How did you get into my apartment? Wait, do I even want to know that?"

"Your neighbor was very obliging once I introduced myself."

I rolled my eyes. "Remind me to thank her for letting strange men into my apartment."

"So I'm 'strange' now? Is that why you've been ignoring me?"

I winced, remembering that there had indeed been a couple of texts and maybe a missed call that I hadn't yet gotten around to replying to. "I'm sorry. Work has been crazy. I'd fully intended to text you back."

"Hmm. Well, you can't blame me for being a bit skeptical. Last thing I knew, you were agreeing that we could see each other, and then you go dark on me."

"So is that the answer to my first question?"

"I'm here because I wanted to make sure you were okay." He gave me a pointed look. "For all I knew, you could've been sick, or kidnapped, or dead."

"Thanks for looking out, Frank Farmer."

"Okay, so mostly the concern was about the flu that's been going around, and less so about the kidnapping or death."

"Thanks for the concern, but I'm fine. Just busy. I've escaped the plague so far." I reached out to rap my knuckles against the kitchen cabinet. "How long have you been here?"

"About fifteen minutes."

"I was going to text you back. I swear."

"I believe you."

"It's only been two days."

"As I've told you before, I'm not a patient man. I decided to take matters into my own hands."

"I can see that."

Tristan stood and shrugged back into his jacket, pocketing his phone.

 _Well, hell. Since he's here and all..._

"Do you want to stay? For a drink… or something?" I mentally cringed as the words left my mouth.

 _That was the opposite of smooth._

"I would most definitely like to stay for 'or something'," he told me with a smile. "But I have plans."

"Oh. Okay." I studiously ignored the pang of regret in the pit of my stomach.

"Actually, you do too."

"I do?"

Tristan nodded. "We're going on a double date."

"We are?" I asked, growing confused. "Did I miss something? When did this happen?"

"About twenty minutes ago, when your neighbor let me in. She was with her boyfriend, and here's a funny story - I know him."

I blinked at him in surprise. "Wow. Is that how Dani introduced him? As her boyfriend?"

"Yes. Is that news?"

"Kind of. I don't remember the last time Dani called someone her boyfriend. This is serious. She normally introduces guys as friends… if she introduces them at all."

Tristan turned to me. "What about you? How do you introduce guys?"

"Uh, I don't. Not recently, anyway."

"What about me? How would you introduce me?"

That was a puzzling and unexpected question, and after the day I'd had, I was in no shape to tackle it. Instead, I expertly covered with sarcasm.

"You're a hot-shot CEO," I told him. "Surely you need no introduction."

His only answer was to smirk at me, and he used a hand at the small of my back to guide me toward the door. He swiped my purse from the counter and hung the strap over my shoulder.

"Please tell me that our plans include dinner. I'm starving."

"We're going to Cafe Mex," he told me.

My stomach grumbled in appreciation, and I fought to control my salivation at the thought of a smothered burrito.

"Wait," I said as he herded me into the hall. "Did you say that you know Devon? That's not fair. I don't even know Devon."

"Just think, in a few minutes, you won't be able to say that anymore."

Right on cue, the apartment door across the hall opened to reveal Dani and a tall, dark-haired man with chocolate brown eyes and a Mediterranean complexion. He wore a dark navy suit over a light blue shirt that was open at the neck, with a striped tie sticking out of the pocket of his blazer. His hair was in disarray, his eyebrows were striking, and he was running an extremely close second for the Most Attractive Man in the Hallway. When he smiled at me, it was almost a tie.

"You must be Rory," he said. "It's great to finally meet you."

I accepted his outstretched hand. "Likewise. And I'd make my own introductions, except I understand everyone here already knows each other."

"Tristan and I met a few minutes ago when I came home to find him attempting a B&E on your door," Dani told me.

I shot Tristan a reproachful glance, and he shrugged unapologetically.

"And apparently these two go way back," Dani continued, pointing between the two men.

Tristan smiled. "Devon and I were in the same EMBA program at Yale."

"Yeah, an MBA gets some people farther than others, these days," Devon teased, giving Tristan a raised eyebrow.

"You haven't fared so bad yourself. Last I heard you were working your way up to Partner."

"What do you do?" I asked. I vaguely remembered Dani saying that he worked in finance.

"I work with a small investment firm, Slater & Hanna. It's my job to take clients out to ball games and convince them to give us their money to invest."

"He's being modest," Tristan said. "He's their VP of Strategic Accounts, and next year, his name will be on the door next to Slater's."

I'd never heard of the firm, but that wasn't surprising, given that my assets were peanuts compared to the type of money a firm like that was surely used to dealing with.

"Let's go, I'm starving," Dani said. "Who's driving?"

"I have a car waiting at the curb," Tristan told us.

Dani and I shared a mutual, telepathic _You go, girl!_ type of moment while we followed these fine male specimens down the hall to the elevator. We all piled into the back of a black SUV with Tristan's driver, Graham, in the front, and he set off for the restaurant.

Cafe Mex is a favorite Mexican eatery in the West End neighborhood of Hartford, known for their green chile and three-per-patron limit on house margaritas. I'd never made it to three, and based on my historical reactions to just two, I wouldn't want to.

The restaurant was almost always busy, and I knew we were lucky to get a table without a wait on a Friday night, though I suspected that they'd just pulled two extra chairs up to a table designed for two. I had Tristan practically plastered up against my right side. Dani was on my left, but I had some space on that side, since she was plastered against Devon.

It wasn't anyone's first rodeo, and we all immediately put in our food and drink orders with the waiter without wasting time with a menu.

"So whose idea was this?" I asked once we'd settled in.

Dani, Tristan, and Devon all looked at each other, and Tristan shrugged. "Group decision."

"The locale was my choice," Dani said. "It's been a three-margarita type of day."

"It's been a three-margarita type of _week_ ," I corrected.

Tristan gave a nod toward the waiter approaching with a tray full of our drinks. "Not a moment too soon."

The waiter doled out a frozen strawberry margarita to Dani, a classic with no salt to Tristan, and two classic house margaritas to me and Devon. We cheersed as the waiter retreated, and I took two healthy swallows, closing my eyes to relish the pleasure of the tequila warming my solar plexus. I dragged my tongue along the rim to lap up some salt and took another sip. Tristan had just asked Devon a question about his firm, and there were terms flying around that I didn't comprehend.

 _Just as well. Gives me some quality time with my margarita. I deserve this._

The conversation faded and Dani's knee knocked into mine. I looked over at her, and she raised her eyebrows expectantly.

"I'm sorry, what?"

Dani laughed. "I just asked you about the protest tonight, and it was like you were on another planet. Do you need some time alone with your glass?"

I looked down at my margarita and realized that I'd lapped up half the rim's worth of salt. I glanced around the table and saw Dani and Devon looking amused, and Tristan's gaze glued to my mouth. I cleared my throat and hastily set the glass back on the table.

"Sorry. What about the protest?"

"No judgement here," Dani told me. "I was just wondering who they sent out with you for the photos."

I shook my head. "No one. There wasn't anyone available. Jeff snapped some pictures with his phone, though."

Dani grimaced. "Oh, great. That'll look great on the front page of Community, I'm sure."

"He has the iPhone X. Good camera."

Dani rolled her eyes, and Tristan blinked out of his stupor. "What protest are we talking about? I haven't heard anything."

"I don't imagine you would have, since you don't have a child attending the Glastonberry School District," I told him. "Parents are protesting against the new standardized tests rolled out to sixth graders."

He gave me a knowing look. "Crusading parents, standardized tests, and middle school curriculum. Maybe we should let you get back to your alcohol now."

"What about you?" I asked. "What's new in world domination?"

Devon laughed at that one. "Yeah, what have you got your eye on these days? Which C-Corp is next on the list to be ushered under the Donnel umbrella?"

"Too early to say," Tristan answered vaguely.

"Are you still targeting media?" Devon asked.

"Yes and no. The media industry is still a target, but we're also broadening our horizons. Most recently we've been looking in manufacturing and power-generation."

"What type of manufacturing?" I asked. I didn't often hear Tristan give details about his work. I was curious.

"Specialized."

I resisted an eye roll and reached again for my margarita. "Sounds _special_."

He smiled and eyed my now nearly-empty glass. "Need another?"

The waiter brought my second drink along with our food, and even the fresh margarita couldn't distract me from my meal. I ate voraciously and plowed through three quarters of the burrito in sixty seconds flat. The moment I slowed down, I recognized that I was stuffed.

Devon was regaling us with a story of an outrageous client who had gotten falling-down-drunk at a New York Giants game. I was sucking up the melted ice in the bottom of my glass, and I was contemplating ordering another, but didn't want to relate too much to the man in the story.

Tristan shifted beside me, and I felt his arm snake around me and come to rest on the back of my chair. He leaned in close and put his lips up to my ear, grazing my earlobe as he spoke. "Ready for a third?"

I froze, my entire body in knots as I reminded myself to breathe. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were trying to get me drunk."

"I'd say I'm more than halfway there."

I smiled. "Maybe."

 _Halt! Stop! Don't go there, Gilmore!_

He grinned back and turned to catch our waiter's attention, but I gripped his lapel and turned him back to me.

"Wait," I amended. "No. Bad idea."

"Good idea," he said, still smiling.

"No, really. Two is my limit. I have to work tomorrow, and I don't want to be hungover."

"Tomorrow's Saturday," he reminded me.

"The news doesn't stop on weekends. I have three stories to finish tomorrow. Besides, I know for a fact that you aren't exactly a traditional nine-to-fiver either."

"True," he acknowledged.

I realized I was still holding onto his jacket, so I released him and settled back into my seat. He kept his arm around the back of my chair, and I shamelessly leaned back so I could feel his warmth on the back of my neck.

 _Close call_.

I had been having a hard enough time pretending that Tristan's proximity wasn't getting to me throughout dinner. With another margarita in me, there was no telling what I'd do.

 _Would that be so bad?_

 _Yes!_

Tristan paid our bill, despite protests from all of us which he waved off, and we made our way back to the SUV that was magically waiting against the curb in front of the restaurant. I was slightly less steady on my heels than I had been on the way in. When Tristan held the door of the restaurant open for me and followed me out, he wrapped his arm around my waist to usher me toward the car. I glanced back at Dani, who had maxed out her margarita allotment for the night and was leaning a bit on Devon while they followed us.

Tristan followed us all up to the apartment, and we said goodbye to Dani and Devon in the hall. Tristan watched while I unlocked my door, and he followed me when I stepped inside, pulling the door closed behind him.

"Thanks for dinner," I told him.

"My pleasure. It was always the plan for me to take you out tonight, and running into Dani and Devon in the hallway was an unexpected yet pleasant surprise. Devon and I have kept in touch after grad school, but we don't hang out much."

"This was fun."

He reached forward to grab the sleeve of my jacket and pull me closer to him. "Glad you think so. Does that mean there'll be a repeat?"

"Of a double date?"

"Or a single."

I smiled. "We've already had this conversation. We agreed we would see each other again."

"No retractions yet?"

"Nope."

He leaned closer, a smile tugging at his lips. "You sure about that? Nothing you want to rethink about our arrangement?"

My heart started beating faster, and I did my best to ignore his proximity. His breath mingled with mine, and our lips were so close that I could feel the warmth from his skin. A fraction of an inch, and he would be kissing me.

"Nothing that I can think of," I squeaked. "You?"

"Not yet. I'll keep you posted."

He pressed his lips to my cheek, lingering there before he pulled back. I noticed that my fingers were curled into his jacket. I made an effort to put a couple more inches between us, and smoothed out the wrinkles I'd made.

"Goodnight," he told me. "Don't work too hard tomorrow."

I closed the door after him and slid the deadbolt into place, then leaned my forehead against the door and let out a long, slow breath.

 _Stay strong, Gilmore. You can do this!_


	13. Who's The Boss

**Master of My Domain**

 **Disclaimer:** Gilmore Girls was created by ASP and is property of Warner Bros Television/Hofflund Polone/Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **A/N:** I'm back! Sorry I missed last week's update - had some last-minute work travel and just couldn't make it happen. Next chapter will be next week! Thanks for all the reviews, follows, and faves!

 **Chapter 13 - Who's The Boss**

I'd promised Kevin that I would follow up on the Sage Resources lead he'd given me weeks ago, and had broken that promise yet again. It was at the end of that chain of events that I found myself on my hands and knees under my desk in search of that damn scrap of paper.

I'd realized over the weekend that the sticky note he'd given me with the lead information wasn't in my bag, which meant that it must be somewhere on my desk at the Courant. I told myself it was for the best, given that I likely wouldn't have had time over the weekend to follow up anyway. But by the time Monday morning rolled around, I'd finished the three stories that were on my plate, most of the staff was recovered from the flu and back at work, and I was tearing my desk apart in search of the lime green sticky note.

"A-ha!" I exclaimed.

"I can't wait to hear the story here," Angela said dryly from behind me.

I crawled backward from under my desk, careful not to whack my head when I sat up. I brandished the sticky note with pride. "I found it!"

"Congratulations. Do you need a hand up, or is this some new ergonomics practice?"

I took Angela's hand and let her help me to my feet. I blew some dust off the sticky note I'd found trapped between my drawer and the backboard of my desk, and Angela took a step back with a distasteful look while the dust floated in the air.

"I've been searching all morning for this lead from Kevin, and I found it!"

Angela squinted at the sticky note that I was holding out to her. "'Sage melanin boner yen'. Sounds like you've got a doozy, there."

I looked down at the note. "That says 'negative power-gen'."

Angela shrugged. "If you say so. I've never been able to read Kevin's handwriting."

"You get used to it."

"At least power-gen sounds a little more appealing than boner yen."

"True." I frowned down at the note. "I'm still not sure what this means, though."

"I'll leave you to your fun in finding out," she told me, settling in at her desk.

My first step was to pull up the basics on Sage Resources. By 10am, I had a fact sheet: Sage Resources was a small research and development company based in Silicon Valley, less than 100 employees, and they'd only been around for 7 years. From what I could tell, they mostly specialized in improving manufacturing processes, though their website was pretty vague and didn't list any clients by name. I'd dug all I was going to get from the first round of internet research, and my next step was to go straight to the source.

Kevin was in the zone as I approached his desk, and I couldn't help but give him a 'Boo!'. He jumped, and I grinned at him.

He rolled his eyes, but smiled back. "Thanks for the Glastonberry piece. Great job."

"My pleasure. Got a sec to talk to me about Sage?"

He perked up at that. "Have you looked into it yet?"

"I just started. I've got a basic fact sheet, but it would be helpful if you could give me any more details about the lead."

"It was an anonymous call."

"Did you get to talk to them, or was it a message? Can you forward it to me? All you wrote was 'negative power-gen'. Any more information for me?"

"I don't have a message, they caught me live. We were only on the phone for about two minutes, but the caller said they wanted someone to look into Sage Resources because they suspected the company is getting into some questionable practices for power-generation."

"Questionable? As in, bad? Is that what the 'negative' meant?"

Kevin shrugged. "The caller made it seem like he thought it was dangerous."

"So the caller was a man."

Kevin nodded. "That's all I could tell you, though."

"Anything else about the call itself? Did he mention anything else that might be helpful?"

"Not that I can remember. I just thought you'd be interested. You've had a lot of environmental stories recently."

"I'm interested, I'm just not finding much at first. This is helpful, though. Let me know if you think of anything else."

"You bet."

I had to set aside the mystery of Sage for the next couple of hours while I caught up on other stories. I had a meeting scheduled with David in the afternoon, the curiosity of which had been eating away at me for the past several days since he'd scheduled it. He had always been more of a _come on in, door's always open_ type of boss, and less-so a scheduled meeting kind of guy. It was unusual, which made it notable.

I was immersed in work and had to force myself to shift gears when 2:30 approached. I took a pen and notepad with me for my mystery meeting, and pushed back from my desk to make my way toward David's office.

"Rory, when did they say we need to have our stories done for next week's double truck?" Jamie asked as I passed by her desk.

"They need to be submitted by noon on Friday," I answered.

Kevin glanced up when I glided past him. "Hey, do you remember what artwork we ran with that 'lifelong dream' article last week?"

"It was the single-engine plane on the runway shot. Trevor took it. It's saved on the shared drive, just go to the issue's folder and you'll find it in the artwork file, named as the article."

"Thanks!"

I reached David's office without any further interruptions and knocked before I stuck my head in.

"Hey Rory, come on in, just give me one second. Close the door, would you?" He sat hunched over his computer, as usual, and his fingers flew over the keyboard.

 _Wow. Two closed-door meetings with David in as many weeks. What is this all about?_

I tried not to psych myself out while I sat in a chair opposite his desk.

He set his elbows on his desk and leaned forward. "So. Rory."

I mimicked his tone. "David."

"I suppose you've heard about Alan's retirement."

"I have, and I've been meaning to say congratulations. We'll miss you down here, but I can't say I'm not happy that you'll be our new master and commander."

He laughed. "Well I'm glad to hear it. Although I'm not sure you'll miss me as much as you think."

"Don't sell yourself short. Who else is going to help me out with my crosswords? And who's going to bring the maple syrup on Waffle Wednesdays?"

"I'll still be around for your crosswords, and as for the syrup – you can bring it."

"I've got the chocolate chips, you know that."

"I think the new features editor can handle bringing both maple syrup and chocolate chips."

I blinked at him. "But then what will I bring?"

David chuckled and leaned back in his chair. He rubbed his face with his hands before he leaned towards me again. "I'm telling you that I'd like you to be the new features editor."

I could do nothing but stare at him for the space of several heartbeats, opening and closing my mouth before I finally managed a squeak. "What?"

"I'm not doing a very good job at it, obviously, but I'm trying to offer you the position. It's yours, if you want it."

A million thoughts flashed through my mind. Most of them were in regards to my qualifications or lack thereof, some were hazy images of the future of success that was being dangled in front of me like a carrot, and strangely, some were scenes from Shattered Glass.

None of those thoughts added up to a coherent sentence. I could've sworn I heard the clock ticking, but since there wasn't a clock in his office, it was probably my imagination.

"So, what are you thinking?" David asked.

"That I wish I'd taken a news management class or something instead of Russian Literature."

 _Of all the thoughts running around in here,_ that _is the one you choose to share?_

"What?" David laughed.

"Are you sure about this?"

"You're a natural. I've watched you, ever since you started here. I see it, and so does everyone else."

"I've seen His Girl Friday a few more times than the average person. Are you sure that what you thought you saw wasn't just residual Hildy?"

He ignored me. "You're already the person that everyone turns to. You probably know more than I do about the reporting staff, and you understand how to motivate them."

Me, an editor? I'd always known that I wanted to be a reporter. My dream to be a foreign correspondent was still a possibility, though I'd also begun to see some merit in sticking to local coverage. But _editor?_

David jumped back in to fill my continued silence. "You're my first pick, Rory. You're my _only_ pick. If it's not you, we go external, but I really hope that you'll accept. You're the first person I thought of to take my place when I got the news."

I thought back to my time at the Yale Daily News. My best semester was the one I worked as editor. There was a bit less reporting, sure, but still a lot of writing when all was said and done. Plus, I'd loved being responsible for the staff. Organization was a passion of mine, and it was a great outlet to exercise that.

I took a deep, steadying breath. "Okay."

"Okay, as in, you'll take it?"

"I'll take it," I confirmed, pleased that my voice didn't sound as shaky as I felt. "After all, I'd be almost crazy to turn this down, right?"

"Right. I'm so glad to hear that." He smiled and stood to shake my hand. "We'll set up a meeting with HR. If you don't mind, I'd like to make the announcement on Friday at the 411."

"Sure," I answered, still a little numb. He could've asked to announce it on a billboard over I-84, and I probably would've agreed.

I was pretty sure that once the shock dissipated, I'd be ready to shout it from the rooftops. As it was, I walked in a daze back to my desk. I stared blankly at my computer screen, not comprehending the words I'd written only an hour before.

 _Rory Gilmore, Features Editor_.

 _I suppose that has a nice ring to it._

 **. . . . .**

THE WEEK FLEW by in a blur. Kevin and I got to work closely on several follow-up pieces related to the middle school parent protests, and the stories were great, but they kept us more than busy. In my few pockets of spare time, I continued to follow up on the Sage lead, but it wasn't going anywhere. I'd left voicemails with everyone I could track down within the company, and wasn't getting anything back.

 _Oh, well. You win some, you lose some._

Added to the list of things I'd lost that week, unfortunately, was personal time. I'd barely had a minute to myself, and was going to pay dearly for the couple of missed texts from my mom.

On the winning side, though, I had a meeting on Friday morning with Trish from Human Resources. She went over salary details and made me sign twenty-seven-thousand different pieces of paper, and when I walked out of the office, I was officially the Features Editor of the Hartford Courant. Almost.

I'd stay at my current desk for another week, continuing to write as usual while also working closely with David to ease the transition. I couldn't shake myself out of the surreal feeling as I went about my typical routine, with the knowledge that it would soon change. Then again, part of what I loved about journalism was that there never really was a 'typical' routine.

My phone rang, interrupting me mid-sentence, and I finished typing before I answered.

"Hartford Courant, Features, this is Rory Gilmore."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I was looking for Mary."

I smiled at the sound of his voice, and then immediately felt silly for it. "There's no one here by that name."

"Brunette, blue eyes, responds to Mary, but apparently not to her cell phone?"

I groaned. "Shoot. I'm sorry. Have I missed a call?"

"Or three," he told me.

"I'm really sorry. It's not you, it's me."

"Ouch. Are we there already?" he teased.

"I've been so busy. I'm sorry, I don't mean to make excuses. Did I really miss three calls?"

"No, I was exaggerating. It was only one call, and two texts. But that's the tipping point. All the online articles said if I left more, I'd come off too needy."

"Yeah, right," I said. "I can't picture Tristan DuGrey - Donnel, whatever - big-shot CEO, reading online dating articles."

"Do you see what you've driven me to?"

"How many times do you want me to say I'm sorry?"

"You're right, no more. I've got you now, and that's what matters."

"You've _got_ me?" I repeated, letting him read the question in my tone.

"What are you wearing?"

"Uh-uh. I'm not doing this with you."

"That's too bad. But seriously, I need to know what you're wearing."

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to ask you to go out tonight, and if possible, I'd like to pick you up from your office."

I glanced over to Angela, who was engrossed in her article, but I lowered my voice just in case. "A purple dress with a gray sweater."

"You'll do. When will you be done?"

"April 24th of 2019."

"I keep having to remind you that patience is not my best thing."

"What is your best thing?"

A moment after I asked it, I caught my breath, wondering whether I was getting too flirtatious for our current arrangement. A little too close to the edge, perhaps.

There was a moment of silence, and when he spoke, his voice was lower. "You say the word, and I'll be happy to show you. After all, they do say that actions speak louder than words."

 _Yes, definitely too close! Reel it in, Gilmore!_

I cleared my throat and tried to steer us back on track. "I can plan to be done tonight around 6. Would that work?"

"You name the time, and I'll be there," he told me.

 _Shit! Does he mean… does he think I meant… for the show-and-tell?!_

"For the date!" I exclaimed. "For the date, I mean. Tonight. I meant I can be ready to leave at 6 for the date!"

He chuckled from the other end of the line. "Of course. For the date. What else?"

I closed my eyes tight. "Can we press rewind over the past thirty seconds?"

"If you insist."

"So where are we going?"

"Lime."

"You want me to go with you to your own restaurant?"

"Yes. You liked it, didn't you?"

"Sure. Is it some kind of special occasion or something?"

"Every occasion with you is a special occasion," he told me in a gallant tone.

My only response to that was to make a gagging sound, and Tristan laughed.

"Why does it matter what I'm wearing?"

"It doesn't. I just really wanted to know."

"You're sick."

"And you're gullible. I'll plan on picking you up around 6."

"I'll let you know if the time changes."

"Bye, Rory." I could easily visualize the smirk I knew he wore.

I was still smiling by the time I hung up. Angela gave me a curious look, but I just rolled my eyes and dragged my attention back to work. I had way too much to wrap up, and not enough time to do it.

By noon when I walked with Angela and Kevin into the conference room for the 411, I was both excited and nervous about the imminent announcement of my new role. David had asked that I not tell anyone beforehand, so I'd saved the news for the big reveal.

I shared a plate of donut holes with Angela while we took care of the usual business, which mostly included touching base, doling out a few assignments, and catching up with what everyone was working on. When that was wrapping up, David shot me a look and I gave him a small nod.

"As you all know, we're in the process of some organizational changes that'll be going into effect in the next week or so," David told the room. "We're all reluctant to see Alan go, but we wish him the best of luck in this new phase of his life."

"Somehow I can't see you spending your days fishing and sitting on the couch in front of the Golf Channel," Nick piped up from the back.

Alan grinned back at him. "Jealous?"

"Regardless," David continued, "I'll be responsible for attempting to fill Alan's Paul Bunyan-sized shoes. That means that I'll have to leave the features department in someone else's capable hands, and I'm proud to announce that those hands belong to our very own Rory Gilmore."

I realized I had unconsciously braced myself for boos, hisses, and perhaps tar and feathers, but after a few surprised murmurs, the staff gave a small round of applause and shouted heartfelt congratulations. I was concerned that Angela would give herself whiplash with how quickly she turned to me, her slack-jawed surprise giving way to a beaming grin.

"Ohmigodcongrats!" she squealed. She embraced me tightly from her seat.

"I'm very excited that Rory has chosen to accept the position, and I have faith that she'll transition seamlessly into your new fearless leader," David continued.

I couldn't keep the smile off my face at the sounds of agreement that came from the staff around me. I'd been anxious about gaining their acceptance. It certainly wasn't like I was the most senior staff member, or even the most senior features writer.

Alan stood and took the attention off of me, for which I was grateful. "While we're on the topic of organizational announcements, I have another bit of news I'd like to share. We've been aware for some time that our publisher has been looking to sell, and we're pleased to announce that, effective immediately, Harper House will be taking over as the new publisher of the Hartford Courant."

Alan went on to explain that there would be practically zero change in our day-to-day operations, save for the absence of our previous publishers at our staff Christmas party. But I'd nearly stopped listening, because Harper House was a familiar name.

Harper House was a subsidiary of Donnel Enterprises.

I bolted from my seat as soon as the meeting was adjourned, barely stopping to smile and nod at those who tried to congratulate me.

"I'm going out to lunch!" I called over my shoulder to Angela. I didn't even spare a backwards glance until I was backing out of my parking space.

I tried counting to ten. I tried deep, calming breaths. None of it was working. I could practically feel my blood pressure spiking, and the needle on my speedometer rose steadily. I made it to Donnel Enterprises in record time. My heels clacked furiously as I stalked across the lobby.

"I'm here to see Mr. Donnel," I told the woman at the front desk tersely.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"Not exactly."

She must've been well-trained, because her only reaction was to pleasantly ask for my name, which I gave.

"Oh, Miss Gilmore! Welcome. You may proceed to the 10th floor." She slid me a key card, which I snatched up hastily without bothering to wonder why I was getting so far on my name alone.

Charlene was behind the reception desk on the 10th floor, and she smiled when I stepped off the elevator. "Good afternoon, Miss Gilmore. Is Mr. Donnel expecting you?"

"No," I answered tersely. "He's not. But I'd like to speak with him."

"Would you care to have a seat for a moment? Can I get you anything? Water, coffee?"

"No, thank you."

This was no time for beverages. Coffee plus my boiling indignation was not a recipe I wanted to test. Charlene turned to her computer while I had a seat on one of the white leather Barcelona chairs, tapping my foot impatiently.

"You can go in now, if you'd like," Charlene told me after only a few minutes. I didn't spare her another glance before I stormed into Tristan's office, shutting the door behind me with perhaps more force than was necessary.

He'd been reclining in his desk chair and scrutinizing a thick bound document with a pen in his mouth, and he looked up at my non-subtle entrance. I refused to be distracted by how hot he happened to look at that moment.

"This is a pleasant surprise," he told me.

I smiled sweetly. "I'm glad you think so, but fasten your seatbelt, because it's about to take a sharp detour from pleasant."

"Oh?" He raised an eyebrow. "And where will we end up?"

"It'll be a scenic tour through resentment, perhaps a pit stop in fury, and then I expect a sharp left straight into animosity."

Tristan stood and came around to lean against his desk, eyeing me warily. "I'm prepared to keep all hands, arms, feet, and legs inside the vehicle."

"What the hell did you think you were doing?"

"Up until a minute ago I was working, but now I'm wondering if I should order in some thorazine or something."

"You _bought_ my paper."

"Oh."

"Yeah, 'oh'! What the hell is up with that? How could you _buy_ my paper, without telling me?"

He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "This has been in the works for a long time now. I didn't tell you because it's none of your business."

"It _is_ my business! Literally! Tristan, it's my job!"

"Yes, and this is mine, and we made an acquisition based on corporate objectives. Believe it or not, this had nothing to do with you. That's why I didn't feel the need to tell you."

"Don't you see how ridiculous this is? Do you have any idea how this feels?"

"Luckily, I have you to tell me." He didn't look nearly as wary or remorseful as he should have. In fact, he looked perfectly calm.

He didn't get it. He clearly thought that he could get away with this, because he was a hot-shot multimillionaire CEO with way too much authority and ridiculously blue eyes. He looked perfectly at ease, and all I felt like doing was screaming.

 _And maybe grabbing him and shaking him._

 _But also maybe tightening my fist in his jacket and raking my hand down his chest, running over those tight abs he's hiding under that suit, and kissing him until we both run out of breath._

But that was unlikely to help further my point. It was just so unfair that a man so infuriating could be so attractive.

"This sucks!" I yelled instead. Very mature. "So, what? You're my boss now?"

"No."

I gave him an incredulous and less-than-dignified look. "Yes."

"Not exactly."

I rolled my eyes. "Fine. Please explain to me how you are _not_ my boss."

"Technically, I'm just your publisher's boss."

"This is so wrong!"

"Why?" he asked, pushing off his desk and taking tentative steps closer. "Why are you so worked up over this? I make countless decisions every day, and this acquisition was just one of them. And it's a decision I made weeks ago, long before I even saw you again."

While he spoke, a horrific thought had occurred to me.

"Tristan." I spoke slowly, and my eyes bore into his. "Please do not tell me that you had anything to do with my promotion."

"What? What promotion?"

"Please be serious right now. If there were ever a time in your life for you to channel Larry Gopnik, this would be it. Did you set this up?"

"Honestly, I have no idea what you're talking about. You got a promotion? Congratulations, that's great. I had nothing to do with it."

"David offered me the Features Editor job this week."

"Seriously, congratulations." He at least _looked_ sincere.

" _Tell me_ you didn't do this!" I cried.

He held up his hands, palms out. "I didn't do this."

"If I find out that you had anything to do with it…"

"I didn't. I have absolutely nothing to do with those kinds of decisions. I barely had any part of the decision to buy the company. My staff makes recommendations, and I approve or veto. I usually have no involvement whatsoever over the daily operations of these types of acquisitions." Tristan held up three fingers. "I swear."

"You were never a Boy Scout," I scoffed.

"That's true. I'm not really the nature-loving, bird-watching type."

"I bet you've never been camping in your life."

"Also true. I can tie a mean knot, though." He slipped effortlessly into his suggestive half-smile. "I'd be more than happy to show you sometime. You can add it to the show-and-tell I owe you."

"Don't count on it. I'm mad at you."

"Hmm, really? I hadn't noticed."

"And on that note, I'm going back to work."

"I still plan on picking you up tonight. Don't think your little Christian Bale episode is enough to get you out of our date."

"Fine," I grumbled. "But watch your back, DuGrey – Donnel – whatever your name is."

"Duly noted. I always figured you would be the death of me."

"You have no idea," I agreed. "Just wait. You won't even know I'm coming."

"I'll definitely know when you're coming. In fact, I'll make sure of it." The bastard had the gall to smirk at me.

I gaped at him, and didn't know whether I wanted to laugh or throw something at him. Or throw _myself_ at him.

The heat in his office suddenly ratched up twenty degrees. His eyes were dancing with laughter, but there was something more intense there, too. He moved closer to me, slowly, waiting for me to back away or make him back off. I didn't.

"Say the word," he said. He was so close now that he dipped his head and spoke with his mouth near my temple. "Ready to rescind the rules?"

I blinked up at him, scrambling to form a thought other than _Yes_. Both my hands had risen to his shoulders. I opened my mouth to reply, trusting in a higher power that something coherent would come out, but then his desk phone rang.

I snapped back into reality, realizing that we were in the middle of his office. It helped to remember why I'd come there. "You've bent the rules quite enough for one day, I think. I never thought that I'd have to put _not buying my company_ in the rulebook."

He sighed and gave me a half-smile as I drew back from him. "I almost had you, there."

"That's what you think," I replied haughtily.

"I think that call was my 3:00 appointment," he told me reluctantly. "I have to call them back. But you're not off the hook yet - we'll continue this tonight. And I plan to finish it."

While I tried to gather my wits, he took the opportunity to usher me out of his office, and I found myself staring at the closed door. More than anyone I'd ever met, that man could wind me up and unravel me like it was second nature to him.

 _It really pisses me off when he does that._


	14. The Chase

**Master of My Domain**

 **Disclaimer:** Gilmore Girls was created by ASP and is property of Warner Bros Television/Hofflund Polone/Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **A/N:** Dudes. I'm sorry that this chapter is so delayed. Work has been kicking my ass. Thanks for your patience, and thanks as always for reading!

 **Chapter 14 - The Chase**

It was almost 7 by the time I logged off my computer for the night. I'd texted Tristan earlier to push back the pick-up time for our date, and I had five minutes before I was supposed to meet him downstairs.

I used the mirror in the restroom to take my hair down from its bun, and the pen I hadn't remembered I'd stuck in there was returned to its rightful place in my purse. After I finger-combed my hair and wiped the smudge of ink off my neck, I was as good as I was going to get.

I found Tristan in the parking lot, leaning against the side of a sleek silver car. He glanced up as I approached and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He finished typing into his phone and pocketed it when I got to the car. "Hey."

"Hey yourself. No driver tonight?"

"Very astute of you. You must be a good reporter, no wonder you got a promotion."

He'd barely gotten the last word out before my hand covered his mouth. "No. Stop," I insisted. "No more talk of work."

"But I-"

" _None_ ," I emphasized. "As much as it pains me to say this, I am now, in a way, your employee. I've decided to disregard the dozen or so potential violations of media ethics already perpetrated, but let's please not add to them by mixing our personal and professional lives."

He gave me a pointed look, and I lowered my hand from his lips.

"Fair enough," he agreed. He opened the passenger side door for me before walking back around to his side.

Tristan climbed in and started the car, and I deduced that we were in either a Hybrid or electric vehicle from the lack of engine sounds. Nevertheless, the car certainly had power, and we tore off in the direction of the restaurant.

"Is this the car that the guy at the Future 50 gala wanted to drive?" I asked. "What's so exciting about it?"

"I'll have you know that there are plenty of exciting things about this car, thank you very much. But no, this wasn't the one we bet on. This is just the one I drive most often."

I didn't get a chance to inquire about how many vehicles one person needed to own aside from the one they drive _most often_ , because his phone rang over the car's speakers. He hit a button on the steering wheel to answer. "Donnel."

"Good evening, Mr. Donnel." A male voice flooded the small car. "The contracts you asked about have arrived. Everything looks to be in order."

"Good. Email them to me. Anything else?"

"No, sir, I just wanted to let you know."

Tristan pressed the button to disconnect the call without so much as a goodbye and turned his attention back to me. "Sorry about that."

"It's fine," I told him. "So why the sudden desire to visit your restaurant tonight?"

"Can't a guy ask a girl out without having his motives questioned?"

"A guy and a girl, maybe. But you and me? No."

He gave me a mockingly mournful look, shaking his head. "So cynical, and for one so young."

"Not cynical," I corrected. "Just skeptical."

"When have I ever given you reason to doubt me?"

I raised an eyebrow at him, and his lips twitched, but the phone rang again before I could respond.

I detected a note of irritation in Tristan's sigh, but he answered before the third ring. "Donnel."

"Hey, it's me."

This time it was a female voice, and I called on a bit of willpower to redirect myself from wondering who she was, and how she knew Tristan well enough to exclude her name in her greeting.

"Anita," Tristan answered, glancing at me quickly. "You're on Bluetooth, and I'm not alone in the car."

I fought the urge to raise my eyebrows, and forced myself to sit quietly. I did narrow my eyes at him slightly.

"Got it," she replied. "I just thought you should know that Erikson was able to reach Santos's team, and he let them know that the only thing we're concerned about is the logistics. They're going to work on it and get back to us."

"When?" Tristan asked.

"I told Erikson to tell them that if the issues aren't fixed by end of day Sunday, they won't have to bother because the deal will be off."

"Good. And they're aware of the importance of their discretion?"

"I also made it known that if I trace so much as a rumor back to them, they won't be able to get a job pushing slurpees at Seven Eleven by the time I'm done."

He chuckled. "Good. Thanks. Anything else?"

"That's it."

"Bye, Anita."

I remained neutral while Tristan pulled into a parking space across the street from the restaurant. We remained silent while he shifted into park and killed the engine.

"That was Anita," he offered.

"You don't say."

"Anita Jensen. You met her at the Future 50 gala."

"I remember."

 _I remember her being breathtakingly gorgeous._

"She's my COO."

"What was up with the disclaimer about not being alone in the car?" I asked.

He shrugged. "I didn't want her to start discussing anything sensitive."

"Sensitive, huh?"

"Is this you being skeptical again?" he teased.

"What's your company's fraternization policy?" My tone came out wry and accusatory, and I could see that Tristan was amused.

I couldn't decide what percent of me was teasing, and what percent was truly defensive. I was also trying to remind myself that Tristan didn't owe me anything. Did I have a right to be defensive? We'd barely embarked on our third date.

Tristan turned in his seat to face me, with his elbow resting on the steering wheel. He wore a faint smile while he appraised me, and in those few long moments I knew that the defensive side of me was winning.

"What?" I demanded.

"Anita is happily married. She and Jacob have three-year-old twin girls."

"You're avoiding my question," I accused.

"I thought your question was whether I was _fraternizing_ with my Chief Operations Officer."

"My question was about why you felt the need to give a disclaimer to avoid 'sensitive' conversation."

He chuckled softly and shook his head. "Skeptical definitely doesn't cut it. I'm sticking with cynical."

"If you'd stop dodging the question, I wouldn't have to keep pressing."

He sighed. "It's business. We're working on a confidential project. You can't blame me for warning her before she started airing all our corporate secrets while I was sitting right next to a reporter."

That piqued my curiosity. "What kind of confidential project?"

"The key word there being _confidential._ "

"You know I could probably do something with the names she mentioned, right? Erikson and Santos, was it?"

He gave me a dark look. "You were the one who was insisting not fifteen minutes ago that we keep our personal and professional lives separate. Drop it. Please."

I held up my hands in surrender. "Fine, fine."

We left it at that, and exited the car. Tristan was chuckling to himself as he came around the car to walk with me. I elbowed him in the side, and he grinned, throwing his arm around my shoulders.

"I have to admit, it's nice to know you care." He pressed his lips against my temple, and then guided me into the restaurant.

We made our way through the throng of people in the lobby, and the hostess broke into a grin at the sight of Tristan. I couldn't say that I blamed her - just the sight of him tended to have an odd effect on me, too.

"Good evening, Mr. Donnel," she gushed. "Your table is ready and waiting."

She led us to the same circular booth that Paris and I had occupied a few weeks before. Before we sat down, I spotted Chef Greg across the restaurant, heading back toward the kitchen. He spotted us at the same time, and he smiled, shifting course to head towards us. The hostess excused herself as Chef Greg caught up to us, and he extended his hand to Tristan.

"Good to see you," he greeted. "No one told me you were stopping by tonight."

"Someone's got to keep you on your toes. Greg, you remember Rory Gilmore."

Greg smiled warmly at me and reached for my hand. "Of course. How could I forget?"

Tristan's hand remained planted on the small of my back. Greg's eyes moved from me back to Tristan, and the two men locked eyes for a couple of seconds before Greg released my hand from his grasp. He inclined his head in a subtle nod to Tristan before turning back to me.

"Welcome back," he said. "I've been wanting to thank you for the glowing review."

"It was my pleasure. I meant every word. Look, I couldn't stay away."

"I'm very glad to hear it," Greg told me. I saw him glance to Tristan again, and whatever he saw made him back off. "I'll leave you two to enjoy your dinner. I've got to get back to the kitchen, anyway. But hey, Johnny's trying out some new recipes tonight," he told us, nodding to the bar behind him. "I'll have him bring them over for a taste test."

As Greg walked away he waved to the man behind the bar and gestured to our table. Tristan slid into the booth right behind me, and settled in so close that our thighs were nearly touching. I turned my head to look at him, from less than six inches away.

"What?" he asked innocently.

I looked pointedly around at the spacious booth, and when my gaze came back to him, I found him smiling. He settled back into the booth and spread his arms along the back of our seat, indicating his lack of intention to move.

Our waitress appeared and saved me a response. "Good evening, Mr. Donnel. It's a pleasure to see you here tonight."

"Hello, Mary," he greeted. I must've flinched, because Tristan glanced over at me and murmured quietly for my ears only. "Coincidence."

"What can I get you to drink? Would you like a few minutes with the menu?" she asked.

"That won't be necessary," Tristan replied. "Johnny is bringing our drinks. We'll take the flatbread of the day, and an order of the truffle cauliflower mac and cheese."

The waitress left with our order, and I turned to Tristan. "What if I wanted something different?"

"Trust me, you'll love it."

"That's not the point. I prefer making my own decisions."

He sighed. "One would think that one of these days I'd learn to stop underestimating your stubbornness."

I couldn't help but smile. "Yes, one would think."

"I never claimed to be the sharpest tool in the shed."

I rolled my eyes. "Says the Ivy-League CEO who's amassed an empire in less than a decade."

"More money than sense, I guess."

"Don't be self-deprecating," I chastised. "It doesn't suit you. You've always been sharp - always one step ahead of everybody else."

"Says the Ivy-League journalist who just became the youngest Features Editor the Hartford Courant has ever seen," he mocked.

I blinked in surprise. "That's not true. Is it?"

He shrugged. "I don't know about the _ever_ part, our due-diligence reports didn't go back that far. But at least in the past forty years or so."

"I didn't know that."

Tristan's attention shifted, and I glanced up to find Johnny the bartender approaching our table with a tray full of drinks.

"Just in time," Tristan greeted him. "I owe Ms. Gilmore here a cheers for her recent promotion."

"Hey, congratulations," Johnny offered. He balanced the full tray seemingly effortlessly on one hand while he lowered it to the table, reaching out to shake my hand with the other.

"Thank you," I said. I nodded toward the tray of drinks. "It looks like you've been busy. These aren't all for us, are they?"

"I've been testing recipes, and I need guinea pigs. Greg volunteered you two."

Starting with the drink closest to him, Johnny worked his way around the tray, introducing his concoctions. The first was served in a hurricane glass, and Johnny had named it Go Away Or I Shall Taunt You A Second Time. Next up was a martini with coffee beans floating in it, called I Need A Minute. There was a colorful drink in a Collins glass that Johnny dubbed Sure Thing, followed by a deep red drink named Velvet Tongue. Johnny was setting the glasses out on the table in front of us, and I caught a whiff of cherries.

"This last one is my masterpiece," Johnny continued. "I call it That's What She Said."

Johnny looked at us expectantly, and Tristan nodded to me. I obligingly reached out to the drink and took a small sip. It was fruity - I tasted guava, and maybe strawberry. It was incredibly smooth.

"Wow, that's good," I told him.

Johnny grinned and nodded. "That's what she said."

I rolled my eyes and shook my head at him, and Tristan chuckled. "Thanks, Johnny," he said.

"I have to get back to the bar, but let me know what you guys think. We want to add at least two new cocktails to the menu."

We bid goodbye to Johnny and he left us with all five drinks scattered across our table. "He'd better not expect us to finish all these."

"Don't look at me," Tristan said. "I'm driving tonight, remember?"

I gave him an accusatory look. "Did you plan this? Are you trying to get me drunk?"

"Contrary to what you seem to believe, I don't sit around and scheme about ways to irritate you."

"Then you must have a natural gift."

"I have many. If you're nice, I might show you some of my talents."

I was powerless to stop my body's reactions to him, and my skin broke out in goosebumps. I took another sip of the drink in front of me to cover.

 _I can only imagine some of the things he's good at. As I recall, kissing has got to rank pretty high up on the list._

By the time our food arrived, I'd polished off the That's What She Said and was working my way through the Velvet Tongue, much to Tristan's amusement. The drinks were so smooth that I didn't start to realize how high the alcohol content must've been until I'd finished my second in half an hour. I was feeling very pleasantly warm, and I'd begun to lose some of my capacity for tasting the food in front of me.

I leaned back from the table and felt Tristan's arm against the back of my neck. He shifted and settled his arm more firmly around my shoulders.

"I think it's probably time that I cut myself off," I acknowledged.

"If you insist. But first, a toast." He reached for two of the remaining drinks, pressing closer to me as he leaned across the table. I held my breath until he pulled away, and my heart was beating faster when he held out one of the drinks to me. I took it obligingly, and held it up to mirror his own.

"Congratulations on your promotion. You deserve it. Cheers."

We clinked, and I took a healthy gulp of my drink. It was the coffee one, and it was delicious. Tristan took a sip of his, then set it aside and returned to his water.

"It still seems a little surreal," I admitted. "Being Editor, I mean. We just announced it to the staff today, so maybe that will help it sink in a little more."

"When did you find out?"

"Monday. I'll be staying on my regular desk for another week before fully moving into the new role."

"No wonder you've been so busy."

I winced at the reminder. "It's been a little hectic. I'm sorry, again, that we missed each other this week."

He squeezed my shoulder. "That's not what I meant. Believe me, I get it. My schedule has been known to get a little hectic, too."

"I bet. So, slow week for you, huh? So much so that you had the time to pore over online dating articles to find out how many messages you should leave me?"

He smiled, and shook his head. "It's actually been a pretty busy time for us, too. We're working on a project I'm pretty excited about, and my team has been putting in extra time to keep things moving fast enough to keep me off their backs. I'm not known for my patience."

"How did you have time to keep chasing me down, then?" I teased.

"I haven't had much of a choice," he admitted. "I've found myself a bit… distracted, these past few weeks."

His blue eyes were glued to mine, and my breathing grew shallow under his intense gaze. I tore my eyes away from his and reached again for my drink.

"Please let the record show that I in no way coerced you into drinking tonight."

I turned back to him, enjoying my pleasant buzz. "No coercion necessary. These drinks are all amazing, they should all be on the menu."

"Johnny will be happy to hear that you approve."

"So how involved are you in the operations here? Do they consult you for all the menu changes?"

He shook his head. "Not at all. It's just a coincidence that we're here on a night they're testing drinks. I'm a silent partner. All the operations are completely up to Greg and Sharon, the General Manager."

"That's what you said about the Harper House publisher acquisition, too. It sounds like the hands-off approach is most common for you."

"That's true, for the most part. I have a few projects that mean a lot to me, and I'm more involved in those," he said. Then he smiled at me, and his hand fell from my shoulder to my waist, then skimmed down to my hip, and he pulled me closer to him until our thighs were flush against each other. "There are a couple areas in my life where I'd like to be a little more hands-on."

I swallowed against my pulse pounding in my throat, and drew in a shaky breath. "Oh, yeah?"

"Just waiting for I's to be dotted and T's to be crossed."

He'd somehow gotten closer, much closer, and his low voice sent a pleasant hum through my body. We were pressed together in the dark booth, with the high sides shielding us from view of the rest of the restaurant. Had it been this dark in here a minute ago? Had it been this quiet? I worried that Tristan would be able to hear my heart racing.

I was seconds away from saying _screw it_ to this damn game we were playing and closing the last few inches between us to find out whether his kisses were as mind-blowing as I remembered.

Instead, I drew on the last vestiges of my control, scraped the bottom of the barrel for some remaining inhibitions, and chose sarcasm to hide my true feelings.

"Don't forget that we just had a discussion half an hour ago about my stubbornness. I'm not a foregone conclusion."

"We've also had discussions about my lack of patience and sense, and yet even I know that some things are worth waiting for."

Our waitress appeared, and I was grateful when Tristan turned his attention to her, giving me a few extra inches of space to try to pull myself together. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

He nudged my leg with his, and I found him looking at me questioningly. My head was fuzzy from the alcohol, and I blinked as if to clear it. "Sorry, what?"

"Dessert?" he questioned. I shook my head, and Tristan relayed our answer to the waitress and dismissed her.

"You okay?" he asked, turning back to me. His arm was still around me, his hand at my hip, and he slid his fingers up my waist. He gave me a squeeze in what was surely meant as a comforting gesture. I squealed and my body curled in on itself, trying to pull away from his hand, which just meant that I was pressing myself closer against his body. He jerked his arms away and tried to pull away from me, attempting to give me space. "What? What's wrong?"

"Ticklish," I gasped. I hugged my arms around myself, an unconscious gesture to protect my sensitive sides and stomach.

Tristan's eyebrows rose and he laughed. "You jumped like you'd been shocked!"

I pushed off of him a bit harder than necessary to bring myself back to normal posture, and he laughed again. I reached for my drink and took another sip before I remembered that I was going to cut myself off.

 _Oh, well. Far be it for me to let a coffee martini go to waste. What's the worst that could happen?_

I was happy to blame the alcohol for the eagerness with which I settled back into the seat and leaned my head back against Tristan's arm. Although we were done eating and he didn't have a drink to finish, he seemed just as happy as I was to prolong the evening. He asked about Dani, and we fell back into easy conversation.

His arm hung loosely over my shoulders, and his fingers toyed absently with my hair. I tried to focus on the story he was telling about meeting Devon in grad school, but my brain was fuzzy from the booze and I was growing increasingly distracted by my proximity to his body.

He was wearing a black jacket and a light blue shirt, open at the collar with no tie. I wondered whether he'd had a tie when he started his day. The buttons on his shirt reflected light from the candle on the table and the low track lighting from overhead. I reached out to touch one of the shiny buttons in the middle of his chest. It was smooth and cool to the touch as I ran my thumb over it. I moved my fingers down to the next one, and then the next. I dimly registered Tristan saying my name, but it didn't occur to me to respond. Each button was as smooth and cool as the last.

"Rory," Tristan repeated.

My fingers went still over his stomach. I looked at him, and he was smiling down at me. "Hmm?"

"Did you hear what I said?"

I returned his smile. I was feeling pretty serene. "No."

His half-smile turned into a full grin, and he trapped my hand against his body with one of his. My hand was pressed momentarily against his stomach, and he felt solid and warm under my touch. Then he enveloped my hand in his and slid away from me as he exited the booth.

"Come on, let's go."

"Don't we have to pay?" I asked.

He just looked at me, and I rolled my eyes.

"Oh, right. You own the place. That's one of the benefits of being the boss, I guess."

"Right. Come on."

He kept his grip on my hand as he pulled me gently from the booth, and then steadied me as I climbed to my feet. I only swayed slightly. Point for me.

We buckled ourselves back into his car and he headed uptown, in the opposite direction we'd come from. I didn't question the direction - obviously, we weren't going back for my car. I certainly wouldn't be driving tonight.

I didn't remember dozing off, but I opened my eyes when I felt the car come to a stop, and we were in relative darkness. "Where are we?"

"My place," Tristan answered. "I can have Graham take you home from here."

I glanced around at my surroundings and sure enough, we were in the parking garage of Tristan's building. The wall in front of us had a Reserved sign plastered on it. We were parked between a luxury SUV and another sleek silver car, this one clearly a sports car. Both of those spaces were Reserved, as well.

"Is one of these the car that guy wanted to drive?" I asked, nodding my head to either side of us as I climbed out of the car.

"Yes," he answered. He leaned forward to press the elevator call button, keeping a hand on my elbow. The doors opened immediately.

"Which one?"

"The sports car."

"What's so special about it?" I asked.

He grinned. "It's fast. It's expensive. It's fun."

"Must be a guy thing," I muttered.

"Probably."

The elevator doors opened on Tristan's floor, and I blinked in surprise. I hadn't realized we'd been on the private elevator. I'd expected that we'd have to transfer in the lobby.

Tristan kept a light hold on my arm while he opened the door to his apartment and led me inside. He was probably afraid I'd trip, which was a likely possibility. Johnny's drinks definitely rivaled the infamous margaritas at Cafe Mex.

"Make yourself comfortable," he told me, depositing me on the couch. "I'll get you some water."

I kicked off my heels and drew my feet up under me, sinking back into the couch. I had the semblance of self to make sure my dress was tucked neatly around my legs, so I wasn't flashing the room. I watched Tristan walk back into the living room with a glass of water and a beer for himself.

"Thanks," I told him, accepting the water and taking a sip.

"How are you feeling?" he checked.

I smiled at his concern. "I'm okay. Just buzzed."

He took a seat on the couch next to me, with one leg bent so he was facing me. I noticed that he'd also ditched his shoes, plus his jacket, and he'd rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. He took a pull from his beer, and I found myself watching his mouth.

 _God, I want to kiss him._

My eyes moved from his mouth to his jaw, where he was sporting a very faint five o'clock shadow. My gaze trailed down his neck, past the open collar of his shirt, and back to the buttons. I remembered how cool they'd felt in the warm restaurant, and I found myself reaching out again.

I toyed with the buttons over his lower chest, and then his upper abdomen. When my fingers traced down lower, Tristan's hand came up to cover mine.

"Rory." His voice was low and husky, and held a hint of a warning.

"What? Is this against the rules of our arrangement?"

"I don't know," he granted. "I'm taking my cues from you. You're the one who sets the boundaries."

"I don't think this is against the rules," I told him.

"Okay. But remember that turnabout is fair play."

"But I don't have buttons on my shirt." In my alcohol-laden brain, the logic was sound.

"I'm pretty sure I can work around that," he assured me.

He took his hand off of mine, which was still on his stomach, and reached out to me. His fingers slid into my hair just behind my ear, and his thumb traced slowly back and forth over my cheek. He leaned close, and then closer. My breathing was shallow, and it might even have stopped at one point. He was a fraction of an inch away, and I closed my eyes in anticipation of his kiss.

Only he didn't kiss me. I felt his breath move along my jawline, ever-so-slowly, until finally his lips brushed against my ear. The moment his mouth met my skin, I erupted in goosebumps. I felt him move lower, and then his lips were on my neck.

He kissed me there, with the barest brush of his lips before he drew back. He moved down my neck millimeters at a time, planting chaste kisses and spreading warmth… _everywhere._ I drew in a shuddering breath, and I felt him pull back. I opened my eyes, not having realized that they were still closed.

The corner of his mouth was turned up in a smile, but his eyes were serious. "Is this against the rules?"

"I don't know," I stuttered.

He lowered his head again, and I felt him drag his lips slowly across my collarbone. He spoke against my skin. "What about this? Is this against the rules?"

 _Goddamn. Give the man and inch, and he takes a whole freaking mile!_

My hand tightened over his shirt, gripping the fabric between my fingers, which raked over his stomach in the process and I felt his muscles tighten in response.

"Whose idea were these rules, anyway?" I asked, a little breathlessly.

"Yours."

"I've had better ideas," I admitted.

He pulled back to look at me again. "Does this mean you're ready to rescind them?"

I tried to scramble through the alcohol and now also Tristan-induced fog to come up with an answer. Was there a reason I shouldn't be doing this? I couldn't for the life of me think of one.

 _Except, maybe…_

"I have a question first."

"Yes?"

"How much of this is just about the chase for you?"

"Excuse me?" he asked.

"You know what I mean. Are we here because the chase is exciting? Is this just an opportunity for you to relive your high school crush, and once you catch me, I won't be interesting anymore?"

He furrowed his brow and studied me for a long moment. "You're serious."

I nodded. He was giving me a strange look, and I moved my hands away from him and back into my own lap.

He shook his head in disbelief. "It's never been about the chase. Not with you."

"But in high school -"

"Never," he interrupted. "Even then. The chase is a means to an end. I want you, yes, but I also like you. I've always liked you. You know that."

"Do I?" I questioned.

He seemed to consider that for several heartbeats. "Now you do. So now I have a question for you."

My heartbeat had been coming back down from the stratosphere after he'd removed his lips from me, but it kicked back up again. "Okay."

"You do eventually want to be caught, right?"

I felt an answering smile curve my lips, and I kept my eyes locked on his. There was only one possible answer. "Kiss me. Please."

I was rewarded with Tristan's best smile. He reached for me again, this time cupping my neck with his fingers and skimming his thumb lightly over my bottom lip. "Are you sure?"

My answer to that was to move forward on the couch, pressing as close to him as I could in our current position. I rose up on my knees to lean closer and moved my hands to his shoulders for balance. I let my fingers trail over the back of his neck, combing through his hair. Tristan kept his eyes on me, watching me carefully. I smiled at him, and he returned the gesture, before I closed the remaining distance between us.

The kiss was gentle and exploratory. Tristan seemed content to let me set the pace. He'd brought his hands to my hips, but his touch was light, as if he was afraid I'd spook. When my tongue tentatively brushed his bottom lip, he opened to me. My right hand stayed at the nape of his neck, but my left trailed down his shoulder, to his chest, and I gripped his shirt to try to pull him closer to me.

We deepened the kiss by slow, excruciating degrees. I wasn't sure of the tipping point, but I felt Tristan's hands tighten on my hips. He made a sound low in his throat, and then he was shifting us, hauling me up and over him until I was straddling his lap. We both gasped for air before he pulled my mouth back to his, taking over the control. I was only too happy to hand the reins over to him, because damn, did he know what he was doing.

I could feel that he was just as affected as I was, and the knowledge that he wanted me like I wanted him sent a jolt of heat through me that settled like a weight low in my body. I squirmed against him, and was rewarded with another sound from the back of his throat. He slid one of his hands down my back, very low, and pressed me closer against him.

He tore his lips away from mine, both of us sucking in air. We looked at each other, both breathing heavily, and then he groaned again, leaning his back against the couch and closing his eyes. He gripped my upper thighs and slid me backwards up his legs, creating space between us.

He spoke with his eyes still closed, and his voice was rough. "That's enough."

 _What?!_

"I beg to differ," I told him. I tried to move closer again, but he held me in place.

"You're drunk," he argued. "We shouldn't be doing this right now."

"I'm not drunk, just buzzed."

His mouth tilted up in a smirk and he opened his eyes to show me his darkened gaze. "You're a little drunk. I don't want you to wake up regretting anything tomorrow and having a good excuse to blame me."

"Would I do that?" I asked innocently.

He gave me a pointed look, and I giggled.

 _Since when do I giggle? Okay, so maybe he's right. Maybe I'm a teensy bit drunk. But still - he's seriously going to stop here?!_

"You're seriously going to stop here?" My thoughts came tumbling out, clear evidence of my current lack of brain-to-mouth filter.

"Listen, I've had a lot of time to think about how this," he used his hand to gesture between the two of us, "Was going to happen. This isn't it."

"I think we were doing pretty good."

To prove my point, I leaned in to kiss him again. He let me for a couple seconds, but then he pulled away and gently moved me back.

"I agree with you wholeheartedly," he assured me with a smile. "But come on, work with me here. This is me trying to be a gentleman."

I snorted. "You've picked a hell of a time to start trying to be a gentleman."

He grinned. "I know, I'm kicking myself for it, too."

"I bet I could change your mind in two minutes." My right hand was resting against him, and I trailed it down his stomach, inching closer to his belt buckle.

He let out a breath in a huff of laughter and grabbed my hand. "You definitely could, and I'm afraid you would also have a minute and forty-five seconds to spare."

That made me smile, but Tristan still had a resolute look in his eyes. I sighed. "Fine. So now what?"

Tristan lifted me easily and shifted us so we were sitting next to each other again. He turned his body to face me. "I can have Graham drive you home, if you want. Or you can stay."

In the few seconds while I contemplated my options, a yawn escaped me. Tristan reached out to tuck a piece of my hair behind my ear, and let his fingers toy with the ends while he changed tactics.

"Stay here tonight," he offered. "Graham or I can drop you off at your car tomorrow."

"Where will I sleep?" I asked.

He smiled. "Wherever you want. I have three bedrooms."

"But yours is the most comfortable," I said, repeating what he'd told me a few weeks ago when I'd first woken up in his apartment.

His grin ratched up a notch. "That's true."

Just the talk of sleep seemed to bring my exhaustion to the surface. Or maybe it was the alcohol. Or maybe it was the let-down from all the oxytocin and other hormones that had just flooded my system, thanks to Tristan. Regardless of the cause, my eyelids felt heavy, and I yawned again.

Without further discussion, he stood and reached a hand down to me. I took it and let him pull me to my feet, and then lead me to his bedroom.


	15. Best Laid Plans

**Master of My Domain**

 **Disclaimer:** Gilmore Girls was created by ASP and is property of Warner Bros Television/Hofflund Polone/Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **A/N:** I think I originally said this story was only going to be 17 chapters, but based on the way the finishing and editing is playing out, that was a lie. We're looking at more like 19-21 in total. This one turned out to be kind of long and rambling.  
Thanks for reading, following, favoriting - Leave a review with your thoughts!

 **Chapter 15 - Best Laid Plans**

I'd been drifting in and out of sleep for an indeterminate amount of time, trying to cling to the vestiges of what felt like a very pleasant dream. My body was growing restless and overheated, which was what ultimately interrupted my slumber. I rolled onto my back, feeling the sheets caress the bare skin of my legs, and struggled to free my arms from the comforter. I opened my eyes and immediately squinted against the bright light.

No wonder I was so warm - I'd forgotten to close the curtains, and the morning sunshine was pouring into my room.

 _Wait… Not my room._

Memory of last night came crashing back as I returned to full consciousness from sleep. It hadn't been a dream, after all.

I sighed and continued wrestling free of the down comforter, pushing it down my body. The space beside me in the King bed was empty, and I flung my arm out to rest against the cool sheets. Tristan must've been up for awhile already. I craned my neck to see the clock on the other side of the bed and was shocked to see that it was past 9am. I couldn't remember the last time I'd slept past 8.

I shoved the covers all the way off and swung my legs off the bed, straightening the oversized t-shirt Tristan had given me that had ridden up to my waist during the night. The nightstand next to me held a glass of water, a glass of orange juice, and three ibuprofen. Surprisingly, I was feeling fine, my dry mouth the only real indication that I'd over-indulged the night before.

A few sips of orange juice did wonders for the slightly fuzzy feeling in my mouth, and I was as good as new. I padded across the room and stood quietly at the closed door, listening for any sounds coming from the rest of the apartment. It was quiet. Then I headed for the open door across from the bed and into the palatial bathroom.

I took care of necessities, then wondered whether I'd reached a point in my relationship with Tristan at which I could feel comfortable using his shower while he wasn't around. The huge, frameless rain shower was tempting, but I decided that was too intimate a gesture. We weren't there yet.

I settled for splashing water on my face and wiping away the remnants of my makeup. I found Tristan's toothpaste in a drawer and used some on my finger to freshen up. If it was too early for me to use his shower, then using his toothbrush was out of the question.

 _Although it's a little too late to worry about swapping spit at this point_.

A shiver went through me at the memory of last night, and I took a deep, steadying breath. My pulse beat faster at the thought of emerging from the bedroom and facing him in the light of day. I'd been all-too-eager to rescind the rules last night, but now without the silly game we'd been playing with each other, where did that leave us?

 _Suck it up, Gilmore. Time to go find him and figure that out._

My clothes were piled neatly in a corner of the bathroom counter, where I'd left them last night. I put my bra back on, and then was faced with a choice - I could wear my dress from the day before, or I could root through Tristan's closet to find some type of bottoms that might fit me.

Ultimately the decision was made out of what I told myself was practicality, but may also have included a bit of apprehension. After our close encounter last night, that Tristan had put a stop to, I was feeling a little self-conscious. I'd practically thrown myself at him, after all, and he'd shut me down. Granted, this morning I could recognize that he'd been right, and I was grateful. But depending on what happened when I emerged from the bedroom, I wanted to retain the option of a hasty getaway, and while a pair of men's pajama bottoms and a t-shirt may be acceptable for inside Tristan's apartment, it wasn't my first choice of attire for a cab ride back to my car.

So I was wearing my purple sheath dress and carrying my sweater when I finally opened the bedroom door to the rest of the apartment. I glanced around the living room, but in keeping with the last time I'd woken up here, Tristan was nowhere to be found.

I padded into the kitchen and immediately located the coffee pot, but it was woefully empty and there was no coffee to be seen. I thought that a series of stainless steel canisters on the counter were my best bet, but a peek inside each revealed only flour, sugar, and cookies. A smile tugged at my mouth – Tristan must have a sweet tooth.

My search of the fridge, freezer, and various cabinets still didn't turn up anything useful. "What's a girl gotta do to get some coffee around here?"

"I think you mean 'who'."

I spun around to see Tristan, obviously fresh from a workout. I hadn't heard him come in, and I pressed my hand to my chest where my heart had started pounding wildly. "Holy crap."

"I get that a lot."

I rolled my eyes, but had to admit that I didn't doubt it. _Holy crap_ was definitely an appropriate epithet for the deliciously unshaven, well-muscled man walking toward me. His t-shirt was damp with sweat and clung to him in strategic places, reminding me of the hard feel of those very same places that I'd had the opportunity to run my hands over the night before.

He smirked as he drew closer, no doubt at my less-than-subtle ogling. He prowled toward me, coming to a stop directly in front of me, not bothering to leave any space between us. My breath caught as he leaned in closer, pressing the full length of his body against mine, pinning me against the counter at my back. My face was turned up expectantly, but he didn't lean down to kiss me; he stretched up, reaching over my shoulder.

He opened one of the cabinets that I'd already rooted through and reached to the top shelf to pull down a bag of coffee and set it on the counter beside me.

"Oh," I breathed, willing my pulse to slow to a normal rhythm. He hadn't bothered to move away from me, and pressed against me like he was, he could no doubt feel my heart thrumming wildly in my chest. "Thanks."

"My pleasure." The timbre of his voice made something flutter deep in the pit of my stomach. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

He traced the back of his knuckles lightly up my bare arm, and then let his hand settle on my waist. "Just fine?"

"Good," I corrected, feeling a little breathless. I couldn't decide whether I wanted him to back away and give me space to breathe, or kiss me on an all-out offensive to take my breath away completely. "And you?"

His eyes locked on mine. "Depends. You're not having any regrets about last night, are you?"

I waited for the space of a few shallow breaths, and watched Tristan's eyes darken before I answered. "No. Why? Should I?"

He visibly relaxed, and his mouth turned up in a small smile. "No. Then I'm great."

With that, he dipped his head to capture my mouth with his, kissing me swiftly and soundly with leisurely sweeps of his tongue. He pulled at my bottom lip as he drew away, and he peeled himself away from me, giving us both the space to catch our breath.

"You taste like my toothpaste," he told me.

I felt my face flush. "I helped myself."

He took a pitcher of water out of the fridge and poured himself a glass, draining it in long gulps while he watched me set about making a pot of coffee.

"You want?" I asked, holding up the pot.

He nodded, and poured himself another glass of water which he took over to the other side of the counter. He sat in one of the kitchen bar stools, his eyes carefully following my motions. When I pressed the button to begin brewing, I leaned against the counter and met his gaze.

"So no hangover?" he asked.

I shook my head. "I told you, I wasn't that drunk. I can handle my liquor."

"Good. I was a little worried -"

His inflection indicated he'd been about to continue, so I prompted him. "You were worried about what? About me?"

He considered me for a few more moments, running his hand along his jaw. "I wasn't sure what to expect this morning. I wasn't sure how much of last night was the booze, and how much was you."

"You thought I had to have been drunk, to have given in to your charm," I guessed. I kept my voice light and teasing. "I can see how the truth is a little more far-fetched, but there you have it."

He looked like he was fighting a smile. "At least you can admit that I have charm."

"I assume you've had plenty of time and opportunity to practice over the years," I drawled.

"Good thing, or I'd never have landed the elusive Rory Gilmore."

I cocked an eyebrow at him. " _Landed_ me?"

He winced slightly. "Sorry, occupational hazard from the world of mergers and acquisitions. Let me try again. I imagine if I hadn't been able to make use of my - _considerable_ \- charm, I wouldn't have been granted the pleasure of your company."

"Hmm, slightly better. I think your charm escaped you for a minute, there."

He rose from his bar stool and came around to my side of the counter again, taking two mugs from another cabinet and pouring us each a cup of coffee from the fresh pot. "Trust me, I'm still not considering you a foregone conclusion. If I'm not mistaken, we have some unfinished business."

My breathing grew shallow again under the sudden heat of his gaze. I swallowed. "You're not mistaken. But who's fault is that?"

He grinned. "Oh, sure, blame me. Damned if I do, damned if I don't."

"You're the one who insisted on leaving things unfinished," I reminded him. "I was perfectly willing."

Tristan gave a small sound of frustration but was still smiling when he grabbed me and pulled me to him, pinning me against the counter again, caging me in with his arms. "Don't remind me. It was hard enough the first time."

 _I remember just how_ hard _it was…_

I looked up to meet his eyes defiantly. "So what are you going to do about it now?"

He pushed back away from me to lean against the opposite counter. He crossed his arms over his chest while he considered me. "I'm going to take you out to dinner."

I frowned. That wasn't the answer I'd been expecting. "It's not even 10am."

He chuckled. "Not right now, obviously."

"Then when?" I demanded.

"My, my. Where's your patience, Mary?" he teased. "Just let us do this right, okay? It's been about sixteen years in the making, after all."

That thought made me laugh. "Your seventeen-year-old self would never go for this delayed gratification bit."

"Then be grateful that I've matured in more ways than one."

"What do you propose?"

"I told you. Dinner."

"And?"

He laughed. "What do you want me to say? That I plan to take you to dinner, then bring you home and make sure we both wind up as winners of this little 'game'?" he teased.

I blushed. That wasn't what I'd meant. Or had it been? Oh, hell. He was right, I was feeling impatient. Still, I forced a roll of my eyes and made an attempt to play it cool.

"I meant, what about dinner? The when, the where."

He walked over to the other side of the kitchen and picked up his phone where it lay charging. He swiped through it, then brought his eyes back up to meet mine. "How does Wednesday look for you?"

"I'll have to look at my schedule," I told him. It was going to be another busy week, as my last week before transitioning full-time to into my new Editor role.

"Wednesday is my first opening until Saturday," he told me. "And I'd really rather not wait that long before seeing you again."

His honesty caught me off-guard, and I was even more surprised to realize that I echoed the sentiment. I had an interview scheduled today at noon, and knew that I'd have to leave soon. The thought that I may get to see Tristan again as soon as Wednesday was an uncomfortably-comforting one.

"I can probably make Wednesday work," I told him, playing up a bit of nonchalance.

"Good." He sauntered back over to me, stopping right in front of me and bending to place a swift, almost chaste kiss on my lips. "It's a date."

 **. . . . .**

MY PREDICTIONS FOR my week had come true, and then some. And the week was still only halfway over.

Between trying to wrap up all of my active stories, and spending time shadowing with David to learn the ropes of the Features Editor job, I barely had time for restroom breaks, let alone lunch breaks. I loved being productive, and while I could admit to having a penchant for junk food, I was beginning to worry that my vending machine lunches were going to lead to a case of scurvy or some other nutritional deficiency.

I reached into my bag of chips, probing blindly while my eyes were still glued to my computer screen. The bag seemed to be empty. Oh well - that just meant I could dedicate both hands to my keyboard to fix the lead paragraph of the story I was wrapping up.

My cell phone started vibrating, rattling across the top of my desk, but I barely took notice, trying to focus on the task at hand. It skittered nearly to the edge of the desk before I finally sighed and made a grab for it. At the sight of Tristan's name on the screen, I perked up, and swiped across the screen to answer the call.

"Hey," I greeted. I was met with silence on the other end of the line, and I brought the phone away from my ear to look at it, only to find that I'd been too late. Voicemail must have already kicked in. "Damn," I grumbled.

My thumb was hovering over the button to redial him, but I was interrupted by my desk phone. I set my cell aside for the moment. "Hartford Courant, Features, this is Rory Gilmore."

"Are you still going to be answering your own phone in your new job, or will someone else do that once you're too important?"

I smiled at the sound of his voice. "I don't know, you tell me. Are you too important to answer your own phone?"

"It depends on who's calling," Tristan said.

"Then I suppose you have your answer. I guess I'll have to start screening my calls, like all the other important people."

"Will I make the cut?" he teased.

"If you play your cards right."

"Uh-oh."

I frowned. "Uh-oh what?"

He sighed. "I'm calling to play a card that I hadn't planned on playing. I don't think it bodes well."

"What card is that?" I asked cautiously.

"I have to reschedule our date. I can't make it tonight."

My heart sank, and I bit my lip. I'd been looking forward to tonight, perhaps more than I should have been. I was more disappointed than I thought I'd be, and more than I cared to be.

"Okay, well, I understand," I muttered lamely.

"I'm sorry. Really. This isn't my first choice, and I wouldn't be rescheduling if there were any way around it."

"I get it. I know you're busy."

He sighed again. "I'm abnormally busy. I want you to know that this isn't just the way it is with me. This isn't something I intend to make a habit of."

"Is there an emergency in the world of mergers and acquisitions?"

"Something like that. I have to go to New York to deal with something that came up on one of our top projects. I'll probably be there for the rest of the week."

"What happened?"

He hesitated. "It's…"

"Is it the confidential project?" I guessed.

"Yes. I have a small team in New York working on this exclusively, but they ran into some issues today."

"Can't they do anything without you?" I groused. His work was as good a target as any to take out my disappointment. "Maybe you should look into hiring more competent people."

"Hmm, good idea," he drawled sarcastically. "My people don't usually need me to intervene quite this much. This project could be really big for us, but we've been running into some unique challenges. It'll be over soon enough, though. Theoretically."

"Most things come to an end eventually," I muttered, distracted by an email alert that popped up in the corner of my monitor.

"It's either going to come to fruition, or crash and burn. I'm looking into jobs at the sandwich place around the corner, just in case."

"It's good to have goals."

"So, can we reschedule? How about Saturday?"

It was my turn to sigh. "Yeah, Saturday is fine, I suppose."

"Is it wrong that I'm happy to hear your disappointment?"

I gave a rueful laugh. "Yes. You're a jerk."

"I know. As long as I can be a jerk and still get to see you Saturday, then I'm fine with it," he assured me. "I have a charity dinner on Friday night, and I'm sure it'll be very aristocratic, so my only request is that our dinner not have to include any fancy blue-blood fare."

"You'll hear no argument from me on that note."

"So what sounds good? You have some extra time to think about it, but let me know if you're in the mood for anything in particular."

"Oh, let's see," I mused. I wasn't one to waste a perfectly good opening, plus I couldn't deny that there was a small part of me that wanted to make sure he was looking forward to Saturday as much as I was. "Do you remember when you told me that you tie a mean knot?"

I listened to a few extended beats of silence, and then he cleared his throat and I grinned.

"I'm sure we can work something out," he managed after a moment, his voice a little thicker than it had been.

I laughed. "Good. And as for the dinner, I'm fine with whatever. I'll be happy with burgers or pizza, and definitely not at all heartbroken at a lack of crab puffs or lobster tail."

"I'm looking forward to it."

I laughed. "I'll bet you are, now."

I heard muffled voices from Tristan's end of the line, as he apparently covered the microphone. He came back on with a sigh. "The helicopter just arrived. I have to go."

"Are you flying?"

"Yes."

"Be careful."

"I always am," he assured me. "I'll see you Saturday."

"See you then."

We hung up, and I turned my attention back to my computer. On the bright side, I didn't have to worry about trying to get out of work at a reasonable time tonight. That meant I could probably squeeze in a little more work on the Sage Resources story.

I didn't have high hopes of wrapping that one up over the next few days, but could easily take it with me when I transitioned to the Editor role. It wasn't occupying much of my time lately, because I'd been running into dead ends. I couldn't get the lead out of my head - _negative power gen._

Someone out there thought that Sage Resources was developing some questionable power-generation practices - potentially dangerous practices. This was the kind of story that I thrived on. If I could identify what was going on and shed some light on it with the power of the media, we could really do some good. I wanted to get to the bottom of it, and just wasn't having any luck so far.

Sage's company website was sparse, but it did include a Team page with names and photos of their leadership team. I'd also used LinkedIn and other databases to track down about twenty more of their employees, and I'd left messages with every single one of them. Sage was headquartered in Silicon Valley, so I'd also filed an Open Records Request with the state of California, asking for any records on the Environmental Protection Agency's dealings with Sage. If anyone knew anything about dangerous power generation practices, I would hope that it would be the EPA.

While I waited for a response to the Open Records Request or a response to any of the messages I'd left, I could dedicate my attention to the four other stories I was hoping to wrap by the end of the week. I pulled up a Word doc with the next one on my list, and got down to work.

 **. . . . .**

 _I'M JUST TIRED, that's all. I just need more coffee, and I'll be fine._

I forced myself to try to concentrate on the last five minutes of the 411 meeting. I'd made it through the beginning, gritting my teeth and smiling while David passed the torch and announced that I'd be running the meetings starting next week, so why not start now?

After the change in plans on Wednesday night, I'd ended up staying late at the office, and had blamed my exhaustion all day yesterday on my late night. By the time I'd dragged myself to bed last night, I hadn't been able to fall asleep right away for the scratchiness in my throat. I'd woken up this morning with a sore throat and a dull throb in my head.

I'd been doing a fine job at ignoring it for most of the day, but over the past thirty minutes, the ache in my head had sharpened to a consistent throbbing. With every beat of my pulse, my temples throbbed. My eyeballs might have been melting, and I wouldn't be surprised if, at any minute now, my skull cracked in two.

Jeff was wrapping up his summary, and I glanced again at the clock. The meeting was finally over. Maybe now I could go back to my desk and lay my head down for a few minutes.

"Thanks, everyone!" I called, fighting back a wince at the volume of my own voice. "Your pitches were all so great, I can't wait to read the resulting stories. Let me know if you need anything in the meantime!"

I remained in my seat while most of my colleagues trickled out the door. Angela had hung back, and she approached me with a concerned look in her eye. "Are you okay?"

"Peachy," I reported. "I think I've just been driving myself a little too hard this week. I'm just tired."

"Your voice sounds terrible. Are you sure you're not coming down with something?"

I waved off her concern, and stuck with my denial. "It's just a bit of a sore throat and a headache. I'm not sick."

Kevin paused on his way out of the meeting, having obviously overheard. "You can keep telling yourself that, but that's how it started for all of us who had the flu a couple weeks ago."

I started to shake my head, but stopped in mid-motion, closing my eyes against the pounding protest in my temples. "I escaped the flu. I'm fine."

I opened my eyes just in time to see Kevin and Angela exchanging a pointed look.

"Hon, maybe you should take the rest of the day off and get some rest?" Angela suggested gently.

Kevin nodded his agreement. "And if it _is_ the flu -"

"It's not the flu," I interrupted.

"If it _is_ the flu," he continued, "you should know that the worst will probably be over in about 48 hours."

"Two _days_?" I protested. "I can't be sick for two days. I have work. I have plans."

Kevin shrugged. "Then I guess you'd better hope you're right, and it's not the flu."

"Right," I acknowledged weakly. "Okay, folks, let's get back to work."

Angela accompanied me back to our desks, hovering like a worried mother hen. When we both took our seats, she kept shooting me nervous glances. I attempted a smile and waved her off. I turned back to my computer monitor, and adjusted the brightness of the screen to the lowest level.

I tucked back into my work, putting the finishing touches on my last story. I'd worked hard all week to try to wrap up my stories and clear my schedule as much as possible for the weekend, in anticipation of my date with Tristan on Saturday. After I submitted this one last story, I was officially ready to walk in on Monday morning as Features Editor and take over my new responsibilities full-time. The Sage Resources story was the only one on my plate that was still pending. As Editor, I'd still have the opportunity every now and then to write and work on my own pieces, but I'd primarily be managing the rest of the team's work.

My eyelids were heavy, and it was a struggle to keep them open. I managed to plow through my story, and actually felt good about how it had turned out. I was pleased when I clicked Send on the story submittal, and rewarded myself for a job well done by resting my head in my hands and allowing my eyes to close.

"Rory."

I jerked my eyes open. I wasn't sure if I'd actually fallen asleep, but a glance at the clock revealed that I'd lost about 5 minutes. It was 4:45. I looked around to find out what had alerted me, and saw Kevin standing over my desk and shaking his head.

"What the hell are you still doing here?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"You don't have anything to prove, okay? Even Superwoman can get sick sometimes."

"I'm not -"

He interrupted my protest with a hand held out like a traffic cop. "Save it. Go home. Get some rest."

I glanced around the newsroom, which had already started to empty out. Angela had said goodbye a couple hours ago, leaving early for an appointment.

Kevin didn't wait for me to respond. He unplugged my laptop and grabbed my bag, stuffing the computer inside. I must've been a bit slow on the uptake, because I didn't think to stop him until he'd shoved the bag into my hands. "What…"

"Go," he urged. "Feel better."

"Thanks," I mumbled. On autopilot, I made my way to the elevator and down to the parking lot. Dani and I hadn't been carpooling much over the past couple of weeks, partly because I'd been keeping such late hours at the office, and partly because Dani was spending half or more of her nights at Devon's place, anyway.

I climbed into my car and thanked the Powers That Be that I was less than ten minutes from home, because it was difficult to keep my eyes open during the drive. I blasted the air conditioning to keep myself awake.

There was still late afternoon sun shining through the windows of my apartment when I stepped through the door, and I realized that it had been at least two weeks since I'd come home while it was still light out. I dropped my bag off on the dining room table that often doubled as a desk, and dragged myself into my bedroom. I shed my work clothes, pulled a t-shirt over my head, and dropped onto the bed with my eyes already closed.

The next time I opened them, it was dark. I lay there for several long minutes, noting that the pain in my head had receded back to an ache, but that my chest felt tight. An experimental attempt at a deep breath ended in a coughing fit.

 _Well, damn. I guess I'm sick._

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and wandered back through the apartment to my bag, where I'd left my phone. A glance at the clock on the microwave revealed that I'd only slept for about an hour and a half. I stared at the phone in my hand, not remembering what I had wanted to do with it. I could order food for delivery, but nothing sounded that good. What did sound good was an extra-large dose of cold medicine that would knock me out. I made my way into my bathroom, but found the medicine cabinet to be woefully lacking.

The tile of the bathroom was cold against my bare feet, so I stopped by the bedroom to pull on a few more articles of clothing before I dropped down onto the couch in the living room. I looked down miserably at the phone in my hand. I knew what I had to do.

I dialed Tristan's number and listened to four rings before his voicemail kicked in. "Hey, it's me. Rory. I'm sorry to do this, but I'm going to have to reschedule our dinner tomorrow. I'm sick, and I don't think I'll be well enough by tomorrow. I'll talk to you later, and we can make a new plan."

I paused for a couple of beats, feeling awkward, and realized this was the first time I'd ever left a voicemail for Tristan. "Okay, well. Bye," I concluded lamely.

I flipped through TV channels until I found an appropriately awful-looking made-for-television movie to fall asleep to.

I awoke with a start. Movie credits were rolling on the TV screen. Why is it that you always wake up when the movie ends? I reached for the remote, prepared to find a new accompaniment to my slumber, when I heard a knock at the door.

My original thought was that maybe Angela or Kevin had mentioned to Dani that I was sick, and she was checking up on me. But when I peered out the peephole, it wasn't Dani on the other side of the door. I slid the deadbolt back and opened the door to Tristan.

He was wearing a classic black suit, white shirt with French cuffs, and and a silver tie. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, and his tie hung loose around his neck. He smiled at me when I opened the door.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"Nice to see you, too."

"You had a thing tonight." I paused to cough into my elbow, then swallowed against my dry throat. "A dinner."

"I got your message, and I got worried. You sounded awful."

"You ditched the dinner?"

He nodded. "And I'm glad I did. No offense, but you look awful, too."

"Gee, thanks," I managed.

If I'd felt even 10% better, I might be at least moderately concerned with my appearance. But as it was, I couldn't bring myself to care one iota. I'd thrown on my most comfortable pajamas, which included a huge, faded t-shirt advertising Miss Patty's Dance Studio, overtop of drawstring flannel shorts. I'd gotten cold, so I'd also pulled on a pair of fuzzy, purple and white striped socks. I was sure that Tristan wasn't referring just to my ensemble, though. I knew that my eyes were glassy and my nose was red from the tissues I'd been using.

"So are you going to let me in?" he prompted.

"You shouldn't be here," I argued weakly. "You'll get sick."

"Not to brag in the face of your misfortune or anything, but my body is a well-tuned machine. I have an excellent immune system."

I wanted to make a crack about his body being a machine, but my throat was so sore that I couldn't bring myself to waste the energy talking. Instead I shrugged, and opened the door wider, inviting him in without a word.

He stepped into my apartment and headed straight for the kitchen. I hadn't noticed that he was carrying bags, but he hoisted them up onto the counter and started pulling things out. Soup. Crackers. Cold medicine. Ginger ale. Cookies. Vegetable broth. Several Blu-rays.

"I brought you some stuff."

"I can see that. How did you get here so quickly?"

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I just left you that message…" I trailed off as I glimpsed the clock in the kitchen. 9:45. "Oh. Three hours ago, I guess."

"Have you eaten yet?" he asked.

"When?"

He frowned at me. "Tonight?"

I shook my head.

"When was the last time you ate?" he asked then.

"Does coffee count?"

He rolled his eyes. "No wonder you're sick."

"I'm sick because my coworkers infected me. And now you're going to get sick too, because I'm going to infect you."

I broke out in goosebumps and hugged my arms around myself. I left Tristan in the kitchen while I went to fetch a blanket from the hall closet. I wrapped it around me like a cape, and when I came back, Tristan was rummaging around in one of my cupboards.

"Where would I find a small pot to heat up some soup?" he asked.

I pointed, and he followed my direction to the upper cabinet to the right of the stove. He opened it and looked back at me in confusion. "There are only bowls and plates in here."

"Use one of the bowls. You can heat it up in the microwave."

He looked at me skeptically. "You don't have a pot?"

"I have one. It's a big one. I used it to try to make homemade gnocchi, once."

"How did that go?"

"Not well."

"You have one pot, and you've used it once?"

I shrugged. "An old boyfriend thought he could teach me to cook, but it didn't stick. I hate to break it to you, but I suppose this is something you should know up-front - I'm not a domestic goddess."

His lips twitched into a smile. "I can deal with that."

"Look at you, though." I gestured to him as he opened the container of soup and poured it into the bowl. "You're domestic goddess enough for both of us."

"I have Mrs. Vale," he reminded me. " _She_ can be the domestic goddess for both of us."

"Did Mrs. Vale make this?" I asked, eyeing the soup. It appeared to be chicken noodle.

He shook his head. "I picked this up at the store on my way over. I actually haven't been home since Wednesday. I just got back from New York tonight and went straight to the dinner."

"Will you get in trouble for missing the dinner?"

He chuckled. "No. I don't get in trouble. That's one of the benefits of being the owner and CEO. Besides, Anita is there. She'll accept the award on behalf of the company."

"They were giving you an award?" I asked, surprised.

"They're giving the company an award. It's a dinner for Hartford's Fastest-Growing Companies. We've been on the awards list for the past five years. It's not a big deal."

I watched him open several drawers before he found the silverware, and he drew out a spoon for the soup. He'd ditched a dinner in honor of his company, to bring me soup. If someone had told me sixteen years ago that Tristan DuGrey was thoughtful, and possibly even sweet, I'm not sure I would have believed them. Even six weeks ago, when I'd met him in his office for the interview, I never would have imagined that we'd end up here.

He'd managed to find a dish towel that he used to pull the hot bowl from the microwave, and set it on the countertop to cool. He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it off the back of one of my dining room chairs, then took the cufflinks out of his shirtsleeves and slipped them into his pocket. I watched as he rolled the sleeves up his arms.

"Rory?" he asked.

I moved my gaze from his arms to his face. "Hmm?"

"Did you hear me?"

"No. Sorry. What?"

"I asked whether you'd prefer Ginger ale or water. Knowing you and your coffee intake, you're probably dehydrated, which isn't helping you."

There was no use arguing. He was probably right. "Ginger ale, please."

"You go have a seat, I'll bring your soup over."

"Where?"

He gave me a questioning look. "Don't ask me, it's your house. Where do you normally eat?"

When I had company, we typically ate at the table, but I didn't feel the need to put on any airs tonight. I settled into the couch, situating the blanket around me.

"I brought some movies," Tristan called from the kitchen. "Nothing great, unfortunately. Believe it or not, Ken's Mini Mart didn't have the greatest selection."

"You pick," I told him. I pulled the blanket tighter around me, my teeth starting to chatter. "I'll be asleep before the opening credits are finished."

"Okay, but fair warning, I'm going to choose the war movie."

"What are the other choices?"

"Frat comedy, historical drama, romantic comedy."

"War movie it is."

Tristan rounded the couch carrying my drink in one hand, and balancing the bowl of soup on top of the movie case in the other. He set the glass and the bowl on the coffee table in front of me and moved to the TV to put the Blu-Ray in the player.

Tristan nodded to the bowl of soup as he came to take a seat on the couch next to me. "Eat."

"What if I'm not hungry?"

"Eat it anyway."

I started to roll my eyes, but that made my head hurt, so I just grabbed the spoon and acquiesced. It was actually very good.

Tristan leaned across me to grab the TV remote off the coffee table, but he paused before he switched the input to queue up the movie. "What the hell are you watching?"

I slurped soup off my spoon and turned my attention to the television. "I'm not sure. I haven't been paying attention. Being sick means getting to watch bad TV, so I just wanted to find something bad."

He gave me a look out of the corner of his eye that either meant he was amused or that he was questioning my sanity. "You succeeded. You're not invested in this though, right? I can change it?"

I nodded in confirmation, and he started up the movie. I'd had my fill of the soup, and set it back on the coffee table, then leaned back into the couch. As predicted, my eyes kept falling closed, and it wasn't long before I didn't bother fighting it anymore.

I awoke feeling way too warm and slightly sweaty. Tristan's arm was slung over the back of the couch, and I was pressed against his side with my head on his shoulder. I pushed away from him and shrugged out of the blanket that was still around me, shoving it to the floor.

"What's wrong?" Tristan asked.

"I'm _hot_."

"You have a fever."

I started to stand, but Tristan's hand closed around my wrist and kept me in place. "What are you doing?"

"I want some of that medicine you brought."

"The fever is your body's way of fighting your sickness," he said. "You should let it run its course."

"I didn't realize you were a doctor, in addition to running your empire." I knew my sarcasm was bordering on rude tonight, but I would go ahead and keep blaming it on the flu.

Tristan wasn't offended. He shrugged. "That's what I was always told when I was growing up."

"Are your parents doctors?" I asked.

He snorted. "No. I didn't hear it from them, either. I heard it from the nanny."

"Was she a doctor?"

"Doubtful."

"Then if it's the same to you, I'm perfectly happy to use chemicals to mask my symptoms and make me feel better."

I started to get up again, but Tristan beat me to it. "I'll get it."

While he disappeared behind the couch, I couldn't help but be obstinate. "If I didn't get to take the cold medicine, why did you even bring it?"

He treated that question as rhetorical, but he wore a placating look when he approached to hand me the medicine over the back of the couch. He handed me the little plastic cup that he had filled with the correct dosage, and I downed it like a shot. He retreated again, presumably to put the medicine bottle back on the kitchen counter, and when he rounded the couch again, he held his hand out to me expectantly.

"What?" I asked.

"Come on. You know you want to go to bed."

Under normal circumstances, with Tristan looking down at me like that, my motivations for going to bed would be entirely different. But still, he wasn't wrong. I was exhausted.

"What about the movie?"

"Here's a spoiler alert - the Allies are going to win."

I protested feebly, but let him pull me to my feet. He began leading me down the hallway before apparently realizing that he didn't know which bedroom was mine. I pointed, and he pulled me by the hand. I collapsed on the bed and started trying to pull my socks off, still overheated, while Tristan looked curiously around the room, taking extra time to inspect the photos on the wall.

His eyebrows rose in appreciation when he came to the series of photos from my campaign days, separate snapshots of me posing with Michelle Obama, Joe Biden, and Hillary Clinton. He continued along the wall, pausing again during the high school years.

He shot me a grin over his shoulder. "It's been a long time since I've seen those uniforms."

"I still have mine. It's come in handy for a couple of Halloweens."

"That has intriguing possibilities." He meandered over to the bed and took a seat on the edge of the mattress. He reached out a hand to touch my forehead.

"So, what do you think? Will I live?" I asked as he slid his hand away.

"I'm no doctor, as you've already so kindly pointed out, but I think you have excellent chances."

"Thank you for bringing me soup. And company."

"No problem. And my pleasure."

"Are you staying?" I asked.

"Can I?"

"At your own risk," I warned.

"I live on the edge," he joked, already pulling the knot out of his tie and starting to work on the buttons of his shirt.

I moved out of bed only long enough to pull the covers down and slip back in under them, then I focused my attention on the show. Tristan was preparing for bed, stripping off his shirt. When his hands went to the button of his pants, I interrupted.

"If I was feeling any better, I'd ask you to go slower and put on some music or something."

He grinned, then made quick work of the rest of his clothes, stripping down to his boxer briefs before climbing in on the empty side of the bed. " _When_ you're feeling better, maybe we can come to an agreement. You show me yours, I'll show you mine."

"Deal," I agreed, then I yawned.

"Sleep now," he instructed. "Goodnight."

He'd get no argument from me on that one. Between the cold and the cold medicine, falling asleep was just a matter of not fighting the pull anymore. I was dimly aware of Tristan's arm coming around me as he settled beside me, pulling me back against him, but then I was out.


	16. Game, Set, Match

**Master of My Domain**

 **Disclaimer:** Gilmore Girls was created by ASP and is property of Warner Bros Television/Hofflund Polone/Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **A/N:** Sorry for the delay, again. Work has been sucking up all my free time, but there is light at the end of the tunnel, so I'll try not let it be three weeks between chapters again. Thanks for sticking around to read, follow, and review!

 **Chapter 16 - Game, Set, Match**

I woke up on Saturday morning feeling no better but no worse than I had the day before. The primary difference was that this morning, there was a man in my bed.

Tristan lay on his stomach beside me with an arm draped across me. I was hot, but was debating whether to risk waking him by trying to slide out from under his arm. This was technically the third time we'd slept together, but the first that I'd woken up beside him.

 _Three whole nights together, and I still haven't gotten to the really exciting bits_.

I didn't have to debate long about how to best extricate myself from the bed, because as I watched him, he took a deep breath and slowly opened his eyes. He blinked a couple of times, and then smiled.

"Good morning," he mumbled sleepily. He turned on his side to face me, and I mirrored him. He ran his hand lightly up and down my back. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay." My voice came out as a cracked whisper, so I cleared my throat to try again, but it didn't do much good.

He brought his hand to my forehead, brushing my hair out of the way. "You're still hot."

"Thanks," I teased, although my feeble attempts at flirting were greatly diminished by the pathetic sound of my voice.

Tristan gave me a pity chuckle, and while I climbed out of bed, he folded his hands behind his head to watch me. When I came back from the bathroom, he was sitting on the edge of the bed wearing his now-rumpled pants and unbuttoned shirt.

"Breakfast is on its way," he told me.

"And coffee?" I asked hopefully.

"You don't need coffee when you're sick. You need -"

"I need coffee!"

"But you -"

"Coffee!" I exclaimed, my voice cracking again.

Tristan held up his hands in surrender. "Fine, fine! I'll make you some coffee. I didn't put it on the list for Graham."

He followed me into the kitchen and gently pushed me aside when I started to load up the coffee maker, taking over the task himself. He directed me to the couch, where I flipped on CNN.

"Do you take cream or sugar?" Tristan asked.

"What do I look like, an amateur?"

He circled around the couch with two steaming mugs in his hands and gave me a placating smile as he took a seat beside me. "I'm sorry to have underestimated you. I hadn't realized I was in the presence of a coffee-drinking _professional_ ," he mocked.

I peered over into his mug to see that he was also drinking his black.

 _Thank goodness_. _We still stand a chance at being compatible, after all._

 _Although the fact that he hadn't initially thought that coffee was a necessary component of the morning is concerning._

Twenty minutes and one refill later, there was a knock on the door, and Tristan waved me away when I started to struggle off the couch to answer it. He opened the door to Graham, his driver, who handed off a bakery bag and a messenger bag to Tristan. Tristan thanked Graham, then set the bakery bag on the counter while he disappeared back through the hallway with the messenger bag.

When he reemerged, he was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, carrying a laptop under his arm. I did a double-take. I must've stared at him a few moments too long, because he furrowed his brow.

"What?" he demanded.

"Nothing," I croaked, and cleared my throat. "It's just, you look so normal."

"Gee, thanks?"

I laughed at the look on his face. "No, I mean you look great, like always. It's just that you're wearing jeans. And your shirt doesn't even have buttons."

"You always look great, too," he told me with his wolfish grin.

"I've never seen you in jeans before."

He gestured to me with a pointed look. "This didn't seem like an occasion that called for Armani."

"It's not a bad thing," I assured him. "I'm just saying I've never seen you as Casual Ken."

"Last night and this morning you saw me nearly naked. How much more casual can you get?"

"You know what I mean."

"So what am I usually?"

"More corporate. Is there a Workaholic Ken?"

"I'm not a workaholic," he scoffed. "Besides, isn't that a bit like the pot calling the kettle black?"

"Touche," I admitted.

"So the moral of the story is, I look great. Like always," he teased.

"Yep, that sums it up," I acquiesced.

He rustled around in the kitchen for a few minutes before returning to the couch with two plates balanced on top of his laptop. He handed me my plate, which held a bagel with cream cheese, fruit, and the tiny plastic cup full of cold medicine. I watched him set his laptop on the coffee table before he settled back into the couch with his own plate.

He gestured to the laptop. "Sorry, I have some stuff I have to get done later."

"I take it this means you're staying awhile longer?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Is that okay?"

"Of course," I quickly assured. "But you don't have to. You know that, right?"

"I know. But it's Saturday. You owed me a date today. You're not getting out of it that easily."

I sighed, but that made me cough. When I could manage to talk again, my voice was worse than it had been a minute ago, barely a whisper. "This wasn't exactly what we had in mind, was it?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. The only plans we'd really settled on so far had been non-fancy food. I think bagels qualifies."

"That's some selective memory you've got there. I recall that there was a bit more to our plans."

Even with my croaky voice, my tone was noticeably sullen, and Tristan chuckled. He nudged me with his shoulder and smirked at me.

"Have a little patience, Mary."

"This is coming from you, a guy who claims that patience isn't his best thing."

"I can be patient when the situation calls for it."

"Are you sure that this isn't just about the chase? Is that what's keeping this interesting?"

He frowned at me, and shifted on the couch so he was facing me fully. I looked down at my plate to avoid meeting his gaze.

"Am I still chasing you?" he asked.

His tone made me look back up at him. His voice had hardened, and his expression matched his tone. I blinked in surprise, not having expected this shift.

"What do you mean?" I asked hesitantly. He was bordering on animosity, and I wasn't sure where it was coming from.

"I didn't think we were still playing games," he said. His face was serious. "I thought the chase was over."

My mouth had gone dry, and it had nothing to do with the flu. I set my plate on the arm of the couch and tucked my leg up under me, mirroring Tristan.

 _Fix this, Gilmore! Figure out what you have to do to back out of this, and fix it!_

My mind was turning, but not fast enough for Tristan's liking, and before I could think of the right thing to say, he started again. "Come on, don't evade the question. What is this?" he asked, gesturing between us. "Is this still just a game?"

"Of course not. It was never _just_ a game," I protested.

That seemed to pacify him a bit. He nodded. "Good. I know it was never a game for me."

"Well…" I started pointedly, but trailed off when Tristan raised his brow at me. I winced, wishing I hadn't started. My natural inclination was to argue with him. I would have to work on that.

"Yes?" he asked expectantly.

"Nothing."

His lips twitched as if he were fighting a smile, which I took as a good sign. "Rory."

I threw up my hands. "I mean, let's not forget that you were the instigator of this whole thing. The bets, the game."

He sighed. "When I first saw your name on that New York Times article, I knew I wanted to see you again. When you came to my office for the interview, though, I second-guessed it. You were clearly uncomfortable with me."

"I wasn't -" I started, but he gave me a pointed look, and I clamped my mouth shut. I tried again. "Okay, you're right. I was."

"Then we ran into each other again at Lime, and it was a little better. Granted, you were drinking, so I still didn't take that as the best sign. I did try just plain asking you out, though, remember?"

"No, you didn't."

"I did. I tried to ask you out for breakfast, and when you said no, I tried lunch, and when you said no again -"

"Okay, okay, I get it," I said. "You asked me out."

"And how did that go?"

"I said no."

"I'm a persistent guy. I didn't want to take no for an answer from you, so I got creative. But I never meant for it to just be a game. Like I said, it was a means to an end."

"And what's the end?" I asked uncertainly.

"I thought we'd already gotten there. I think I've made it quite clear how I feel, and I thought you were done fighting me on our relationship."

 _There it is. The R word._

"I'm fighting you?" I repeated dumbly. I was still scrambling to figure out what exactly it was I wanted to say.

"Between you and Micky Ward, my bet's on you."

"Who's Micky Ward?"

He sighed impatiently. "That's not the point. You're still evading, and now I'm enabling. Back to the point - what is this to you?"

 _This is it. You know what to do._

I took a deep breath, which of course made me cough again. I gave Tristan my best imploring look. "I'm sick. Did you purposefully wait until my moment of weakness for this conversation?"

He chuckled and shook his head. "You and your revisionist history. You're the one who started this conversation, remember?"

"Is that why you're making me end it?"

"Rory!" he cried exasperatedly. "Quit stalling."

"I guess… that I would maybe be okay if you wanted to categorize us as… in a relationship."

"That was good," he complimented sarcastically. "Now try it once more, with feeling."

"Tristan, would you like to be my boyfriend?" The words sounded ridiculous and so very junior-high, so I gave him a saccharine-sweet smile to match.

He waited a moment before he answered, and my stomach rose into my throat. Then I saw a smile tug at his lips. "I'll think about it."

I glared at him and he grinned, so I smacked him lightly on the shoulder. "I'm rescinding the offer in five, four, three-"

"Yes. I do."

"I concur."

"I'm glad to hear it." He slipped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me in against him. "We have a deal, then."

"Should we shake on it?" I teased.

"I think I have a better idea. But I'll need to write you a raincheck until you're feeling better."

"Deal."

 **. . . . .**

JAMIE GONZALEZ LEANED over my shoulder at my computer, and every time she moved, her long necklace made annoying jingling sounds. I pointed to a story in the dummy layout on the screen. "This is the one we need to trim. I'll let you take the first pass at it. I need you to cut about one hundred words."

"No problem," she assured me. "The guy was exceedingly dull, so the majority of the interview is fluff."

"Perfect. Just get it back to me as soon as you can, would you?"

"Sure thing! Thanks, Rory!" She jingled as she left my office.

We were playing up a profile piece on a local nonprofit, and I shot an email to Henry, who had been the photog for the story. Hopefully he'd have something good to go along, and it would be a nice chance for him to get an above-the-fold credit.

"Hey, Rory?" I looked up to see Jeff stick his head in the door. "Did you want that Winterfest piece for tomorrow? I can have it ready, but if we have some more time, there are a couple quotes I'm waiting on."

"No, that's fine. The budget's full for tomorrow, so we'll go ahead and hang on to Winterfest for another day at least."

"Awesome, thanks!" he called on his way out.

Jeff's visit reminded me to check on the artwork for his piece. The weatherman was predicting snow overnight, and it would be great if we could include a photo of the freshly-blanketed park to go with the feature. I was thinking maybe a shot of the skating rink, but I'd leave that decision to the professionals.

When I'd finished that task, it was almost 3:00, and my phone and computer alerted me simultaneously that I had a meeting on my calendar in 5 minutes. I'd spent the better half of the day steeling myself for the meeting I'd set up with David. I really should have met with him on Monday, but I still hadn't been feeling my best, so I'd selfishly put it off. He'd been out of the office yesterday, so today was the best I'd been able to do. But it meant that two and a half days work days had passed since The Talk, giving my own guilt and worry that same two and a half days to gnaw away at me.

After my conversation with Tristan on Saturday morning, I'd known what had to be done, but that didn't mean that I felt prepared to do it. I wasn't excited about the prospect of adding Shortest Tenured Features Editor in Hartford Courant History to my resume.

I gathered up a pen and notepad, along with my wits and courage, and resolutely made my way to David's office. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and knocked sharply on his door frame.

"Hey Rory, come on in," he greeted.

I took a seat across from his desk and tugged nervously at my jacket. "How are you?"

"I don't know, you tell me. In all honesty, I've been worrying about this meeting." He looked at me with serious eyes, and I blanched.

"What? Why?" My voice was slightly higher-pitched than usual, and I tried to bring myself under control.

 _Had he found out? How could he have? What did he know?_

"I'm afraid that I may not like what you have to discuss," he told me frankly, and he leaned back in his chair to survey me. "Are you not enjoying the new job? Because I don't think we have anyone else on staff with the ability to do it half as well as you. I don't want to be back at square one with recruiting for the position."

"What? No!" I exclaimed. "No, no, it's nothing like that. I love the job."

I saw relief spread across his face. "That's good. I'm glad to hear it."

"It's only been two days," I told him incredulously. "What did you think could have happened in that amount of time to make me rescind my acceptance of the position?"

"It's not just the past two days. I know how hard you'd been working, how many hours you'd been putting in to make sure there was a smooth transition. I appreciate it."

"I love my job," I told him honestly. "I don't see it as that much of a sacrifice."

"So if everything's going well, then what's up?"

"Well, I wouldn't get too relieved just yet, if I were you," I warned. "I have to tell you something."

He furrowed his brows in consternation. "Okay. Shoot."

"I'm in a relationship with someone," I began, and paused while I contemplated the best path to disclosure.

"Um, that's great." He was giving me a confused look, and I didn't blame him.

"I'm sorry, that's not the news, obviously. I mean, it kind of is. This is hard for me," I admitted in the midst of my rambling. "The man I'm seeing is Tristan Donnel."

I watched his face while he absorbed the information. He nodded slowly. "I see."

"The CEO of Donnel Enterprises," I elaborated for clarity's sake. "And Donnel Enterprises is the parent corporation of Harper House, and Harper House is-"

"Our publisher," David finished. "I understand."

"So you understand why I'm telling you this." I said it as more of a statement than a question, because I had no doubt of his grasp of the situation.

"I do. And I appreciate your disclosure."

"I'm more than willing to step down as Features Editor," I explained quickly. "I don't want this to reflect poorly on the Courant in any way. This is obviously a huge conflict of interest, and I would completely understand if you wanted to reassign me. Maybe to Sports or something, because there probably wouldn't be a conflict there. Although to be honest I don't really know sports, so maybe that wouldn't be-"

"Whoa, whoa, hold on," David interrupted, holding his hand out like a traffic cop. He was chuckling, and I halted my rapid rambling. "You're not stepping down."

"I'm not?" I questioned tentatively.

"Absolutely not. I do appreciate you telling me, but I really don't see this causing too many waves."

"But the conflict of interest," I protested.

"Do you plan to use your position to manipulate the news?"

"No!" I shook my head vehemently, aghast at the thought.

"I didn't think so. I don't think we have a problem here."

"Are you sure?"

"Being owned by Donnel Enterprises just means that we have to be cautious of the way we handle reporting news of anything related to the corporation. Do you plan to get in the way of those efforts?"

"Of course not," I confirmed again.

"Then it's settled. We're fine."

"We're fine?" I echoed, sounding unsure. I let my relief flood over me, relaxing tension from my muscles that I hadn't even realized I was carrying.

"Just keep doing your job like you have been. It's been working great for us so far."

"Thank you," I told him earnestly.

"Nothing to thank me for," he assured. "Now, since you're here and we have a few minutes left, fill me in on how things have been going."

I grinned at him. "Missing us already?"

"Old habits die hard. Last I recall, you were still working on the Sage Resources story, correct?"

"Trying to, anyway," I admitted. "I've been meeting a lot of closed doors and dead ends."

"Keep on it," he encouraged. "You'll get there. This could be a big story. If Sage is running dangerous or environmentally-damaging power generation practices, we need to break the story and expose them to the public."

"We don't know yet that that's what's happening," I cautioned. "We only have one anonymous source, and we haven't been able to track down anything else that's truly credible."

"You don't believe the anonymous tip?" he asked.

I shook my head. "It's not that I don't believe it, I just need to be sure of the facts before we publish anything. I've been stalking the Sage leadership team - I've managed to track down personal phone numbers for most of them. It'll only be a matter of time before I can reach someone."

David chuckled. "If anyone can track something down on this, it's you. Keep me posted, will you?"

"You bet."

"Great." He nodded his head toward the door. "Now get out there and get back to work."

I left David's office feeling lighter. I smiled to myself as I rode the elevator back to my floor, eagerly looking forward to the piles of work that I knew awaited me.

 **. . . . .**

LATER THAT EVENING, I parked my car in the lot at my apartment and was so busy flipping through emails on my phone that I nearly ran into Dani as we both approached the elevator.

"Hey!" I cried. "What are you doing here?"

She grinned. "I live here, remember?"

"No, _I_ live here," I teased.

"What can I say, I've been busy."

"Gettin' busy, you mean."

She shrugged, unable to deny the accusation.

"It's pretty late for you to be rolling in," I teased.

"Devon and I had dinner and saw a movie. What about you, who kept you out past curfew?"

"Just work for me. I got caught up proofing tomorrow's edition, and lost track of time. Your night was more fun, let's talk about yours - how's Devon?" I asked.

I watched as the smile lit up her face. "He's great. Wonderful. Marvelous."

"Good for you, Miss Prescott."

"He invited me to Boston with him for Thanksgiving."

"Whoa! To meet the family? That's exciting. Are you going?"

She nodded. "I mean, I'd already planned on going home for the holiday weekend, and Boston is only forty-five minutes from my parents' house."

"Look at you, going all Ben Stiller."

"I know, right? I'm a little nervous."

"Don't be," I told her. "You make a great impression. Any parent in their right mind will love you."

"Well, that's true." She grinned. "Can I borrow your tan sweater for the trip?"

"Sure. Are you thinking that, with your brown boots?"

"You know it. Are you still going to your mom's tomorrow?"

"I've been told that if I don't show up on Thanksgiving, I shouldn't bother ever again, because she'll have me erased from the family tree."

"And what are Tristan's plans for tomorrow?"

"I'm not sure, actually. He's not really close with his family. I assume he'll be working. He's always working."

"But it's a holiday," Dani protested.

"Not for the rest of the world. There's always something to be done, it seems."

"So how are things going with you guys? I feel like I've missed some girl talk time with you over the past couple weeks."

"You've been otherwise engaged," I reasoned, grinning at her cheekily. The elevator doors opened to our floor, and we trailed slowly down the hall.

"Don't distract me," Dani insisted. "We're not talking about me anymore, we're talking about you. How are things?"

"Good. I'm finally feeling as good as new after being sick last weekend."

"And?" she probed.

I knew she wouldn't let this go, and if I was being honest with myself, the thing with Tristan was still so new that I still felt the thrill of excitement when I thought about him. Which had been quite often over the past few days. He'd stayed at my house all day and overnight again on Saturday, and then had left early on Sunday for a meeting. Before he'd left, we'd coordinated our calendars and decided that Friday was the first day we'd both be free again. I had the day off for the holiday, and Tristan confirmed that Donnel Enterprises employees did too, although apparently that didn't always apply to the CEO. He'd warned me that depending on how things shook out with this big, top-secret project he was working on, he may need to work a little on Friday during the day. But either way, Friday night was ours.

"Wow, that good, huh?"

Dani's voice brought me back to the moment, and she was giving me a knowing look.

"Sorry, I was distracted for a second. What were we talking about?"

"The same thing you were thinking about, I imagine. A certain blond-haired, blue-eyed CEO. Things are going well, I take it?"

"Well enough."

"What does that mean? Come on, I need details!" She waggled her eyebrows at me suggestively.

"You know me, I don't kiss and tell," I teased.

"Can't blame a girl for trying."

"If I had details to share, maybe I would." I sighed. "That's part of the problem. The timing factor for me and Tristan hasn't been great. We've both been so busy, we're lucky if we see each other even once a week."

"Wow, so you've already escalated to the wanting to see each other more than once a week stage."

I blinked in surprise. She was right, I had said that.

 _Face it. You'd like to see him all the time._

"You know how it is when it's still new," I told her, making light of it. "It's still fresh and exciting."

"You don't have to tell me," she agreed. "I keep waiting for that stage to fade with Devon, and get to the point where I start to find him annoying or find faults in him, but it hasn't happened yet."

"Maybe it won't," I offered.

"Maybe it won't for you and Tristan, either."

"Oddly enough, it's like the more time I spend with him, the _fewer_ faults I'm finding. He has this annoying habit of making me second-guess my original judgements of him."

Dani raised a knowing eyebrow at me. "I can't wait to hear more after Friday, then."

"You and me both," I admitted.

We said goodbye in the hallway and I let myself into my apartment, dumping my work bag on the kitchen table and taking my phone with me to the couch. I had two missed text messages.

 _ **Mom:**_

 _ **10AM tomorrow. Don't be late, or I'll withhold pie.**_

I rolled my eyes and texted back.

 _ **I won't be late! And Sookie wouldn't let you.**_

I turned my attention to the next text, which was from Tristan. He'd texted me earlier to confirm our plans for Friday.

 _ **Tristan:**_

 _ **Looking forward to it. T-minus 48 hours.**_

It was 9:47, and his message had been sent 15 minutes ago.

 _ **We said we're meeting at 7. I hope your Chief Financial Officer is better at math than you are, because your skills leave something to be desired. :-)**_

Before I could set my phone aside, I saw that he was already typing back, so I waited.

 _ **Tristan:**_

 _ **That's not a countdown to the beginning of the date, it's a countdown to the end. Which is also when I'll make sure you don't have any reason to doubt my skills. ;-)**_

I bit my lip to stifle my grin. T-minus 48 hours, indeed. But who was counting?


	17. Thankful

**Master of My Domain**

 **Disclaimer:** Gilmore Girls was created by ASP and is property of Warner Bros Television/Hofflund Polone/Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **A/N:** Thanks for all the love in the form of favorites, follows, and (my fave) reviews! Love to hear from ya.

 **Chapter 17 - Thankful**

I got a later start than I'd planned on Thanksgiving Day. I'd stopped by the office to grab some files, and ended up staying for nearly an hour. After that minor setback, it was smooth sailing. The traffic wasn't as bad as I'd expected, so after all was said and done I was basically on time. I was pretty sure Mom had been kidding about withholding pie, anyway.

After I pulled up in front of the house, I barely made it out of my car before my mom came running down the porch with Noah in tow. "Ladies and gentlemen, behold, the long-lost Rory Gilmore!"

"It hasn't been that long," I scoffed.

"Yeah, sure, it hasn't been that long if you're starting the timeline from when Littlefoot first discovered the Great Valley!"

"I've been busy."

"Oh, I know. I certainly feel extremely lucky that the Features Editor of the Hartford Courant has found the time in her busy schedule to grace us with her presence."

"I'm happy to see you too, Mom." I hugged her and then grabbed my brother and hugged him tightly. "Happy Thanksgiving!"

"Yeah!" he cried. I returned his wide grin and we trekked into the house.

"Hey Luke, hi Sookie, hi Jackson!" I called as we approached the kitchen.

Sookie squealed and dropped her spoon into the pot she was stirring, splattering what I could only assume to be gravy all over the stove and Luke. "Come here, come here!" She pulled me into a hug. "Tell us all about the bustling metropolis of the big city!"

"Have you _been_ to Hartford?" I joked.

"Rory! Come see what we made!" I looked down to see Sophie, the youngest Belleville, gazing up at me with her big brown beseeching eyes.

"My audience has been requested, and who am I to deny?" I told the adults. "I'll fill you in on all the salacious details of my metropolitan existence later. Just wait until we get to the story of laundry day."

I gave Sophie my hand and let her pull me into my old room, which now belonged to Noah. "Look, we made a fort!"

"Whoa, you sure did." The room had been turned into a labyrinth of pillows, blankets, and zigzagging racecar tracks. Even Davey had given up his Nintendo DS to join in the fun with the younger kids. Sophie made a beeline for the makeshift tent created by Noah's comforter strung between bedposts.

"Hey Davey, hi Martha!" I greeted.

Davey waved, too busy racing cars with Noah to bother with formality. Martha abandoned the fort to rush over and give me a hug.

"Rory!" she cried. "You'll never guess what happened! Remember what I told you last time about Susie Bennett?"

"Of course," I lied.

I proceeded to listen to a story about how said Susie apparently broke a promise to eat lunch with one Marcy Johnson, and how that led to catastrophe and general emotional upheaval. I split my attention between Martha's story and racing cars with the boys, making sure to nod and gasp at all the right moments, until my mom came in to pull me away.

Once she'd effectively extricated me, she put an arm around my shoulders and led me to the couch. "I did not succeed in getting you here just to have your attention stolen away. It's time to focus on me."

"It really hasn't been that long," I protested.

"We've barely talked in three weeks, and I haven't seen you in more than six. If it was long enough for Jack Kerouac to write a novel, then it's too long to go without seeing your mother. It would be one thing if you lived more than 45 minutes away, but you don't, so there's no excuse."

"That's actually a myth."

"Don't change the subject."

"You're the one who brought up _On the Road._ I'm just saying, it took a lot longer than three weeks to write."

"We're not talking about that, we're talking about us. You know I don't function as well without you. Six weeks is far too long to go without visiting. Even if you are a famous editor now, that doesn't mean you can forget the little people."

"I'm not famous, and you're definitely not little."

"Great!" She threw up her arms. "So now I'm fat."

"You're not fat!" I cried. "I'm trying to say that your _presence_ in my life is not small."

She ignored me. "You don't show your face for six weeks, and then when you finally do, it's to tell me I need to audition for The Biggest Loser!"

I opened my mouth to argue, but one look at her face told me that I wasn't going to get very far. I sighed. "Alright, fine. I'm sorry. But here I am, so what do you want to talk about?"

"I want to hear about you, and how things have been going. I've been so far out of the loop over the past few weeks, I can't even see it anymore."

I winced, knowing that I wasn't about to help my own argument that I hadn't been neglectful of our mother-daughter relationship. Along with my conversation with David, this conversation was another one that I'd been stressing over. I'd told myself that it was acceptable to tell my Editor about my relationship before my mother, only because I'd preferred to tell my mom in person rather than over the phone, and I'd known I would have that chance today.

I wasn't sure how to gracefully segue into the topic, and I also didn't want to give myself a chance to chicken out, so I blurted. "I have something to tell you."

"Um, okay… Should I be sitting down for this?"

"You are sitting down."

"You're making me nervous," she admitted.

"I'm sorry, don't be nervous. I'm nervous, but you shouldn't be. I don't think. I mean, I wouldn't be, if I were you. But I am."

"Okay, you're rambling, so now I'm really nervous. Spit it out."

"I've been seeing someone," I said quickly.

"What?"

"I'm seeing someone. I've _been_ seeing him, for awhile." I cringed, realizing too late that I probably didn't need to include that part. There wasn't really a dire need for her to know how long she'd been out of the loop. I could've pitched it as a new occurrence.

"You mean _seeing him_ , seeing him, or just seeing him?"

"I need another word before I can solve the puzzle, Pat."

"You know what I mean. Are you guys like casually dating, or are you in a relationship?"

"Somewhere in-between, I think, but… closer to the relationship side."

"You're in a _relationship_ , and I'm just finding out about it now?"

"I've been busy," I defended weakly.

"Yeah, and now I know with what," she teased. "Who is it? What's he like?"

I took a deep breath. "It's Tristan Donnel. Or, DuGrey."

"You're seeing two different guys?"

"No, they're the same person. Do you remember my big interview in early October, about the alternative fuels research?"

"Yeah, I remember it." She sounded confused, but then she gasped. "Wait, I remember this. We've had this conversation already, about the CEO of this mega-company being the guy you kissed in high school. So you're seeing him now?"

"Yep."

"So why am I finding out about this now? Not that I'm not glad you're finally telling me."

"Well, it just became kind of official, I guess," I muttered. "I didn't think it was going to turn into anything, which is why I didn't tell you. I'm sorry about that. But now…" I trailed off and sighed.

"But now you think it might turn into something?"

"I think it kind of already has," I admitted.

"You like him?"

"Yes, I like him," I confirmed.

"And you're being careful?"

"Mom!"

"No, I don't mean sexually, although you better be doing that too. I just… I guess what I'm trying to say is, proceed with caution. I don't remember any glowing reviews about this guy."

"I appreciate the concern, but I'm fine." What I didn't tell her was that it was already a little late for caution. As much as I had tried to fight it, I was pretty sure I was past the point of no return.

"Thank you for telling me. Finally." She sounded more teasing than anything at that point, and I let myself sink back into the couch in relief.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner," I said again.

"You're forgiven this time. But just so you know, this is your second strike, since you ate the last piece of pizza from the fridge that one time."

"Understood," I assured her. "It won't happen again."

"Any other surprises for me?"

"Nope, that's it. Everything else is par for the course."

"Your new job is going well?"

"Really well," I confirmed. "I love it. I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed being an editor. Not that I'm adopting Hartford Courant department editor as my end-all life goal, but I can see myself being happy in this position for awhile."

"Good, I'm glad." My mom unexpectedly reached out to pull me into a tight hug. "I've missed you, kid."

"I've missed you too," I mumbled against her shoulder.

When she released me, she smiled. "Now that you've filled me in on your life, we can finally turn our attention to what _I_ need to talk about."

"And what might that be?" I asked warily.

"Dr. Dreadful Zombie Lab."

I laughed. "What?"

"It's like Easy Bake Oven, only way more disgusting. You can make candy spiders, and brains that are cotton candy or something, and you can make the zombie head spew out soda."

"This is the topic that you've been dying to discuss?"

"Davey has one, and Noah asked for it for Christmas. It's supposed to be for ages five and up, but I really want it too. It's awesome. Thoughts?"

"Well as long as he has adult supervision, and you don't hog it, then I don't see why not."

"Yes! Tell Luke that, would you, because for some reason he doesn't seem to think zombie brains sound appetizing."

"I guess there's no accounting for taste. But tell the truth, did Noah really ask for this, or do you just want it for yourself?"

"He would probably want it if he knew what he was missing. And besides, toys are so much cooler these days than they were when you were growing up."

"I seem to remember you spending an awful lot of time with my Furby."

She laughed. "I remember that, too, now that you mention it. It's not my fault that Furby was the only one who appreciated my jokes."

"It was designed to have the sense of humor of a six-year-old."

"You're mean today!" she accused. "Now not only am I fat, but my jokes are bad?"

"Maybe I've always been this mean, and you've just romanticized me in my absence."

"See? That's just further proof that you can't leave me alone for too long. My otherwise sound judgment becomes compromised."

Luke chose that moment to join us. "Would that be the same sound judgment that you used to decide to tell your mother that we're going to Seattle for Christmas?"

I spun on my mom incredulously as Sookie and Jackson followed Luke into the living room. "You told Grandma you're going to Seattle? You're not, are you?"

Lorelai wore a proud grin. "Nope. Genius, right?"

"What? Why?"

"This way, we'll be able to celebrate Christmas without the obligatory sucking-up, the guests that nobody really knows or likes, and the gifts that nobody really needs or wants."

"You're awful!"

"We'll still swing by before we leave, and we'll have a nice, celebratory dinner. But this way, it'll be just us, and it won't interfere with our week-of holiday festivities."

I knew from experience that there was very little that my mother took as seriously as her Christmas week festivities. When I'd lived in her house, I'd acted as a stabilizing influence, but her fanaticism had taken a turn for the worse when I moved out. Luke wasn't as capable as I was at deterring my mother - I suspected it was because he loved her too much.

It would be futile to convince her that lying to her mother wasn't in the Christmas spirit, so I decided to cut my losses and refrain from arguing. I sighed. "Fine. But why Seattle?"

"For the coffee, of course."

"Of course," I acknowledged.

"You do know we're not _actually_ going to Seattle, right?" Luke asked.

"But it had to be believable," she told him matter-of-factly.

Sookie initiated a welcome change of topic. "Rory, tell us all about your new fancy life as editor."

"It's really not all that fancy. I'm one of seven other department editors. I hope you don't have terribly high expectations for my stories."

"Nonsense!" she assured. "The most exciting thing to happen to us lately was Susie Bennett forgetting to eat lunch with Marcy Johnson."

"I heard about that! It sounds like life here is pretty intense, I don't know if I can compete."

"Come on," my mom chimed in. "Let us live vicariously through you. Now spill."

We spent the next half hour discussing my new role at the paper. I shared some gems, including Jamie Gonzalez's story pitch for an expose on a salon that botched her haircut. In exchange, I asked to be caught up on what had been happening around town, and my mom filled me in while Sookie and Luke both disappeared back into the kitchen and Jackson went to check on the kids.

My mom gave me a contemplative look as she finished her recap of the latest town meeting. "I have a proposal. As long as you're living within a fifty-mile radius, let's never go more than two or three weeks without seeing each other. I've missed you."

I smiled. "Deal."

Sookie called out from the kitchen. "Dinner is served!"

My mom grinned. "I'm thankful and I'm hungry. Let's do this thing!"

 **. . . . .**

LATER THAT NIGHT, I greeted Graham in the lobby of Tristan's building. I'd learned that Graham doubled as Tristan's personal driver as well as a concierge. He greeted me warmly and swiped his key card to let me ride the private elevator to Tristan's floor.

It took a minute after I knocked on his door for Tristan to answer, and I started to second-guess my last-minute decision to stop by. Maybe he wasn't home. Or worse, maybe he had company. It was a holiday, after all. Maybe he'd had plans. But then the door swung open.

Tristan's confused look transformed quickly into one of pleasant surprise, and he cocked his head at me with a smile. "Hey there. I thought you were staying in Stars Hollow tonight."

"I was planning to, but the weatherman is predicting some sort of blizzard apocalypse, and my mom didn't want me driving home in that tomorrow."

"Good call." He ushered me inside and closed the door behind me.

He stepped close to me, and then closer, so my back was pressed against the inside of the door and I had to tip my head back to see him. He leaned down until his face was within inches of mine, and when he spoke, I felt his warm breath on my skin.

"I'm happy to see you."

"Me, too," I murmured, moments before he closed the last remaining inches between us and kissed me.

It was a chaste kiss, just a press of his lips against mine, and yet my pulse was still beating wildly by the time he pulled away. He smirked down at me, and I wondered if he could hear my heart beating. He clearly knew the effect he had on me.

"How was your visit?" he asked innocently, as if he hadn't just set my skin on fire.

I was still plastered up against the door, so I made an effort to pull myself together, and had to clear my throat before I answered. "Good. Great."

"I'm glad."

"I'm so stuffed, I'm never eating again."

"Does your mom cook?"

I snorted. "Yeah, right. You've already learned about my utter lack of ability in the kitchen. The apple didn't fall far from the tree. But her best friend and her husband are both chefs."

"That's a hallmark of great leadership skills, you know. She knows how to surround herself with people who make up for her shortcomings."

"Is that the kind of leader you are?" I asked. "What are your shortcomings?"

"That doesn't apply to _me_ , obviously. I have no shortcomings," he teased.

"Uh-huh, sure," I muttered.

 _Just because I haven't found them yet, doesn't mean they don't exist. He must come with_ some _weaknesses. It's only a matter of time before Tristan's 'cons' column will start stacking up._

I'd momentarily forgotten the reason I'd stopped by, no doubt because of the aforementioned plastering of me to the door. I pulled myself together enough to recall my purpose, and dug in my purse to pull out a stack of Tupperware containers.

"I didn't know whether you'd like dark or white meat, so I brought some of both."

He examined the containers I'd shoved into his hands, and looked back up at me in surprise. "You brought me food?"

"I couldn't very well go home and put all this in my fridge with the thought of you sitting here eating sad, turkey-flavored Ramen or something while you slaved away at your computer."

He gave me an amused look. "Is that what you imagine me doing when I'm not with you?"

"Yup. Am I close?"

"You're not entirely off-base. Although I was thinking more along the lines of Mrs. Vale's leftover veal parmigiana."

"Thank goodness I'm here, then."

I followed him to the kitchen and perched on a bar stool while he brought out a plate and opened the containers. "You brought me a whole Thanksgiving dinner."

"I highly recommend the stuffing."

He surveyed the contents once he'd opened each container, and he gave me a raised eyebrow. "This is _three_ Thanksgiving dinners."

"Oh!" I dug in my purse for the last Tupperware and slid it across the counter. "I almost forgot the pie."

"Yes you did, and I was just going to bring that up." He dished up a plate and stuck it in the microwave. "So, how's your mom?"

"She's good. She's excited about tomorrow."

"Why's that? The snow?"

"That too, but she has this thing about 'Christmas season', which I guess is the same for a lot of people, but she takes it to a whole new level. Thanksgiving is kind of like a gateway for her. Tomorrow is the day she'll finally let herself slip into full-on Christmas mode. You know, decorating and stuff."

He brought his plate and took a seat next to me at the kitchen island. "I didn't know Christmas spirit had a timeframe. Does Tiny Tim know about this?"

"I'm not going to be the one to break it to him." I grabbed a little piece of turkey off his plate.

"Hey," he protested, sliding his plate a couple inches away in defense. "I thought you were never eating again."

"This doesn't count." I didn't say _duh_ , but my tone of voice said it for me.

His lips twitched. "Why not?"

"Because it's the same food. Duh." I couldn't help it that time.

He chuckled, but rose from his stool to fetch another fork from the drawer across the island. He reclaimed his seat and handed it over, scooting his plate closer to me so that we could share.

"So how was your day?" I asked.

"Good. Productive."

I frowned at him. "It's a holiday. You're not supposed to be productive on a holiday."

He shrugged. "I had to read over the due diligence reports for a couple more small publishing houses, and approve them so my team can move forward with the acquisitions. One of our new manufacturing subsidiaries was over-spending on their suppliers, so I reviewed options and approved one that costs half a million less per quarter but still has the same quality metrics."

"So, in effect, today you bought two companies and found two million dollars worth of savings per year for another one."

He shrugged again.

"That doesn't sound very festive," I complained.

"Look at it this way - my productivity today means I won't have to work as much tomorrow, which means I can dedicate my attention to other things."

He smirked at me, and the look on his face left me with no doubt about what _other things_ he was referring to. I was suddenly very aware that we were sitting shoulder to shoulder, and that his arm was brushing the side of my breast every time he reached for a forkful of stuffing.

I swallowed hard, and tried to ignore the way my body reacted to him, but it was a struggle. He was warm, and he smelled delicious. My pulse was back to beating too fast, and I worried I might start hyperventilating.

He interrupted my efforts at concentrating elsewhere, and his voice was lower than it had been. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?" I was trying for innocence, but my voice was too breathy.

His eyes were locked on mine now, and the corner of his mouth turned up in amusement. "Like that."

I dropped my fork with a clatter on the countertop. "I'm done eating. Are you?"

 _Smooth, Gilmore._

He lost the fight to stop his grin. "What's the rush, Mary?"

I struggled to come up with something coherent to say in response, but Tristan was doing his best to thwart my efforts. He'd set down his fork with much more grace than I had managed, and he'd moved both his hands to my knees. I couldn't tear my eyes away from his while he ran his palms ever-so-slowly up my thighs. I could feel the warmth of his hands even through my jeans, and I spread my knees instinctively.

"What does your day look like tomorrow?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" I didn't understand the segue, nor why he was asking me about tomorrow while his thumbs were caressing my inner thighs _right now_.

"I mean, do you have things you need to do tomorrow? Because if you do, you should probably leave now."

His hands had moved up to my hips, and he pulled me forward in my seat, closer to him, so my knees were straddling his. I managed to shake my head. "No. I don't need to be anywhere tomorrow."

"So you can stay?" His hand at the small of my back pressed me as close to him as we could get while still seated.

I brought my hand up to his neck and pulled him in for a greedy kiss. When I turned away, my lips skimmed across his ear. "I'd like to stay."

Tristan stood abruptly, using a handful of my sweater to tug me gently up after him. He kept his grip on me while his other hand came up to cup my face as he lowered his mouth to mine. He kissed me possessively, and I returned his fervor in kind, stumbling after him as he walked us slowly backwards, leading us haltingly toward the bedroom.

 **. . . . .**

 **A/N:** So the next chapter contains a bit of a lemon. Chapters 17 and 18 were originally going to be combined, but I decided to split them in half so anyone who prefers not to read what happens next can proceed directly to Chapter 19 when that's posted. You won't miss any plot - just a continuation of what's happening here, then a bit of fluff the morning after (which you can also still read if you skip to about mid-way through Ch 18 and look for the page break).


	18. Point of No Return

**Master of My Domain**

 **Disclaimer:** Gilmore Girls was created by ASP and is property of Warner Bros Television/Hofflund Polone/Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **A/N:** As noted at the end of Ch 17, the first half-ish of this chapter is a lemon. Feel free to skip it if that's not your cup of tea. You won't miss any plot. (Plot? What plot?)

 **Chapter 18 - Point of No Return**

When we were halfway across the living room, Tristan stopped to look down at me. His eyes had darkened to a cobalt blue, and I watched him search my face. "You're sure?"

"Positive," I breathed, before leaning up to kiss him again. When we had to break away to breathe, he lowered his mouth to my neck and I could feel his smile against my skin.

I kicked off my heels, which made the whole walking thing infinitely easier, though my knees were growing shakier by the second. I followed him willingly into the bedroom.

My hands crept under the hem of his shirt to play along the warm skin I found there. My fingers dipped into the waistband of his jeans, and I used my grip to pull him closer to me, sealing our bodies together and leaving me with no doubt of how happy he was to be there.

He parted my lips with his tongue and explored my mouth eagerly. We playfully battled for dominance. I took the past few weeks of teasing and tension and desire, and poured them into our kiss. All too soon, I was in desperate need of oxygen, and was beginning to see stars behind my closed eyes. Tristan tugged at my bottom lip as he pulled away, as if reluctant to let me go. He ran his hands over my back, bunching my sweater in his fingers as he went. He deftly pulled it over my head in one smooth move, leaving me standing before him in just my jeans and bra.

His large hands roamed over my newly exposed skin, and despite his warmth, I shivered at the sensation. I used my hand on the back of his neck to pull him back to me, kissing him deeply. When I pulled away to catch my breath, he kissed his way down my neck.

His hot breath was maddening as he traced his lips over my skin. He found a particularly sensitive spot and I gasped, then arched my body against his when he nipped at the skin there.

Tristan grinned unrepentantly before continuing his exploration. I took matters into my own hands, yanking up the bottom hem of his shirt until I met resistance. He refused to move his arms so I could discart the shirt. I was shaking slightly as he trailed his lips lightly over my chest. His hands on my hips helped support my weight as my knees grew unsteady.

He made a sound of impatience when I stepped back and made him pause his ministrations to let me pull his shirt over his head. As soon as his arms were free, his hands were drawn straight back to me like I was a magnet and he was my polar opposite. His fingers went immediately to the button of my jeans, and before I knew it, he had them halfway down my thighs and I had to cling to his shoulders to keep my balance as I stepped out of them.

When I'd successfully extricated myself and kicked my jeans aside, I looked up to find Tristan's gaze raking across my body.

"Wow," he sighed. He reached out to wrap his fingers lightly around my wrist and pull me back into him, claiming my mouth again. I was so wrapped up in his kiss that I was barely aware of him backing me toward the bed.

He gave me a firm nudge, and I was falling. I let out a surprised squeak as I tumbled backwards, but it wasn't a long fall, and I landed with a soft thud on the mattress. I opened my mouth, but all thoughts of protest were obliterated by the sight of Tristan climbing over me. He placed one knee on either side of my thighs, and with a hand under the small of my back, he urged me up onto the bed and towards the headboard.

Just as I was about to meet the pillows, he dipped his head to kiss me deeply, and just like that, I was thoroughly distracted again. He was propped on his elbows, hovering over me, and while he explored my mouth, his hand traced up my back to unclasp my bra. Without breaking the kiss, he managed to slide the straps down my shoulders, and we finally broke apart gasping long enough for him to remove it completely and toss the offending garment into the ether.

"You still have too many clothes on," I complained breathlessly. "We're not anywhere close to even."

"This is not necessarily a tit-for-tat situation," he told me. I thrilled at the rough, husky note to his voice. "And I think you'll find that that ultimately ends in your favor."

 _Oh. My. God._

Overcome as I was by his words, I lay almost inert as he did a sort of push-up over my body. He lowered himself on top of me, and I widened my legs instinctively so he could settle between them. We both groaned.

I swept my tongue over his, trying to gain an upper hand. He'd has his fun. Now it was my turn. I pushed my hands against his chest and he pulled away, breathing heavily.

While he waited for my cue, I shoved against him again and used the momentum of my body to roll him onto his back. I situated myself to straddle his hips, and I may have moved around up there a little more than was strictly necessary. I enjoyed watching Tristan's eyes close and his jaw clench at the delicious friction I created against his now very-stimulated groin.

The planes of his chest and stomach were spread out before me, and I bit my lip, taking a moment to simply admire him. I knew I was blatantly ogling, but was far beyond the point of caring.

I was fascinated with the juxtaposition of his soft skin and hard, solid muscles as my hands explored his shoulders, then his chest, and slowly trailed their way down his stomach. I let my fingers trace the lines and ridges of his well-defined abs, noting with pleasure that his muscles contracted involuntarily under my touch. He sucked in a harsh breath, and I peeked back up at his face where his eyes looked like they would spark a fire at any moment.

I traced the delicate line of fine, blond hair that started below his navel. When I reached his waistband I trailed my fingers teasingly along the edge before dipping below. That was the last straw for Tristan, and the muscles I'd explored a moment ago went taut as he sat up underneath me and captured my mouth. While he kissed me, one hand tangled in my hair and the other splayed across my back.

My mind was clouded with his kisses when he finally pulled away for air. Both his hands were suddenly at my hips, and in a ninja-like maneuver, he flipped us. I wasn't quite sure how I'd ended up beneath him, but as his large hands travelled up my stomach on a sure trajectory, I was positive I didn't care.

His fingers traced slow circles up my stomach, until finally his thumbs traced the undersides of my breasts. He continued his torturously slow exploration, and by the time his thumbs grazed my nipples, I was squirming under his touch. He lowered his mouth to mine once more, making me moan when he grazed my lip with his teeth, before he started his journey south.

He planted kisses down my neck and across my collarbone, making me writhe even more when his hot breath caressed my wet skin. His hand was at my hip, and he slid his fingertips just under the lace edge of my underwear. He withdrew, then did it again, teasing me with the tips of his fingers in the hollow of my hip while he nipped at my neck.

I opened my eyes to watch as his mouth moved lower, drawing close, then closer to my breast. Just before he reached my nipple, he paused and rolled his gaze up to mine.

"Please," I managed breathlessly.

"Please, what?" His warm breath tickled my skin.

Before I had to wonder if he was really going to make me ask for it, he touched his tongue to my skin, and I arched up off the bed. He rolled the tight peak with his tongue, drew it into his mouth, and lightly scraped with his teeth. By the time he released me, I was panting.

Not helping my breathing was the fact that his hand had found its way across my hip and between my legs. He was caressing my inner thighs while he kissed his way across my chest to my other breast. His thumb drew closer and closer to my center while he licked, sucked, and teased my skin.

His mouth and thumb arrived at their destinations simultaneously, and I cried out in response. Tristan groaned, the vibrations sending more shivers of pleasure down my spine. I was putty.

He dragged my underwear down my legs, and all I was able to do was wait impatiently for the return of his touch. One of my hands tugged gently on his hair, eliciting a moan from him, while my other hand clutched at the comforter beneath me, desperately seeking a way to relieve the building tension.

His fingers and mouth returned, and my breathing grew even more erratic under his careful attentions. I couldn't concentrate on anything but how good he felt against my skin, how delicious he tasted. He was tracing circles around my center while he licked and nipped at my chest, and while I fought to stay sane. He had to use his free hand to splay across my abdomen to keep my hips from rising off the bed. I felt a wave of pleasure building, tightening things low in my stomach. The wave grew higher and higher, and when it crashed over me, Tristan made sure I rode it all the way down.

I was floating, shivering with aftershock, when I heard his voice, low and rough.

"Look at me, Rory," he commanded.

I forced my eyes open, not fully aware of when I'd closed them, and met his scorching gaze staring down at me. That was all it took for me to come back to myself.

"You still have way too many clothes on," I informed him breathlessly.

I urged him up and off of me so my hands had better access to his body. He rested on his side with his elbow propped on a pillow and his head in his hands, watching me with dark and smokey eyes.

My fingers raked eagerly at his belt buckle, and once I had it unclasped, I didn't bother pulling it from the loops before I set to work on unbuttoning him. I may have made sure that I brushed against him more than once or twice as I made work of the zipper, and by the time I was done, he was flat on his back and uttering oaths under his breath.

I reached past his open fly to grasp him fully through his boxer briefs, and enjoyed the sound of his breath catching. He threw an arm over his eyes while I teased him a bit more, but my own patience was wearing thin, too.

"I need your help here," I told him, yanking on the waistband of his jeans with my other hand.

He obliged, bridging his hips and pulling down his jeans and underwear in one fell swoop. I let my eyes feast on his full glory, not caring one iota that he was watching me drink him in. I couldn't help my lingering gaze on certain parts of his anatomy, and his smirk told me that my appreciation didn't go unnoticed.

He leaned over to the bedside table and came back with a foil packet, which he started to rip open before I took it from him. He drew in a ragged breath, and I reveled again in the effect I had. His jaw clenched and he cursed again under his breath while I slowly rolled the condom on.

It was my turn to smirk at him, and his eyes were dark and dangerous by the time I finished. He tried to nudge me over onto my back, but I shook my head deliberately and watched his face as realization dawned. I straddled him again, lowering my face to his for another kiss.

He looked into my eyes to wordlessly ask permission as he positioned himself, and I gave it without hesitation. I braced my hands on his shoulders and his hands on my hips helped us find our rhythm.

As it turned out, he was right about the unequal payoff being in my favor.

 **. . . . .**

I AWOKE TO the sensation of being watched, and I blinked my eyes open to find Tristan peering down at me. He was propped up on his elbow. "Good morning."

"Morning," I mumbled. I stretched languorously, feeling the satisfying kind of soreness in muscles that I hadn't used in awhile.

"How are you feeling?"

"Good. Great," I corrected. "You?"

"Same." His arm was draped over my torso, and he slid his hand to my hip over top of the covers.

"How long have you been creepily watching me sleep?"

"Excuse me? Creepily?" His voice tried for indignation, but his eyes and smile gave away his amusement.

I nodded. "Didn't you have anything better to do this morning?"

"As a matter of fact, I did have a few things in mind, but I was waiting patiently for you to wake up." While he spoke, he used his hand on my hip to pull me closer to him, until the side of my body was flush with the front of his. I felt him pressed against me, and started to get a feeling that I might know what kinds of things were on his mind.

I raised an eyebrow, and he grinned. "You took awhile, and now I only have half an hour before I have to meet my trainer. Think we can beat the clock?"

I shifted so I was laying on my side, mirroring him, and I trailed one hand slowly down his chest, and then lower. "Plenty of time."

 **. . . . .**

EXACTLY TWENTY-EIGHT MINUTES later, I was still flat on my back and trying to catch my breath. Tristan lay beside me, and his breathing had already calmed by the time he started to climb out of bed. I guess that was one advantage of keeping your workout commitments - higher aerobic capacity. As I watched him move through the bedroom to the bathroom and his closet, I admired his naked form, and admitted that there were really multiple advantages to his workouts. Still, I wasn't tempted to join him.

I sighed and rolled my legs over the side of the bed. I stretched again, then set about searching for the clothes that had been discarded the night before and not seen since.

"What are you doing?" Tristan asked when he emerged, dressed in gym shorts and pulling a t-shirt over his head.

"Getting dressed."

"Why?" he demanded.

I blinked at him. "Because we're leaving. Public nudity is frowned upon."

"I'm leaving, you're not. I'll be back in less than an hour. Stay here, and we'll have breakfast when I'm done."

Without giving me a chance to argue, he turned me around and nudged me back toward the bed.

"Mrs. Vale has the day off, so we'll be on our own for breakfast, but I'm sure I can at least rustle up some scrambled eggs or something."

"I feel weird being here when you're not," I protested meekly. I'd assumed that I would leave when he did.

"Why?" he demanded. "It's not even the first time."

That was true, I supposed. The past two times I'd stayed the night at his apartment, he'd been gone before I'd even woken up. I shrugged. "Okay, if you're sure."

"Positive. Make yourself at home. I'll be back soon." He leaned down for a quick kiss before he pulled on his gym shoes, and I watched his back - okay, okay, his ass - as he closed the bedroom door behind him.

I fell back into bed and drifted back to sleep for another twenty minutes before I finally pulled myself out of the warm nest of covers and made my way into the bathroom. I decided that after last night, we'd reached the point of intimacy where it was acceptable for me to take advantage of Tristan's shower. I indulged in a long soak, testing out the various settings of the multiple showerheads.

When I'd finished, I towel dried my hair and helped myself to Tristan's toothpaste, and then to his closet. In the chest of drawers there, I found a t-shirt and a pair of cotton pants with a drawstring waist that I could cinch tight. Since he'd asked me to stick around, I figured I was entitled to make myself comfortable.

I padded in my bare feet out to the living area and into the kitchen. I remembered from last time where the coffee was, and stood on my tiptoes to pull it down from the cupboard. I explored the shelves of books in Tristan's living room while I waited for the brew cycle.

When the coffee was ready, I poured myself a mug and settled in at the kitchen counter with my phone to review emails. I'd made it through one refill and half my unread mail before I heard the door to the apartment open and turned to see Tristan enter.

I admired him in his post-workout glory while he made his way to the fridge to pour a glass of water.

"So," he began, crossing his arms on the counter. "I suppose I should follow through on the breakfast I promised you."

"Probably. If I don't get food and coffee within about an hour of waking up, you'll definitely come to regret asking me to stick around."

"Well, I have some bad news. I lied about the eggs. Turns out, I don't have any eggs."

"Is that how you trap all the girls? The old bait and switch?"

"You're the only one I'm interested in trapping." He'd stood and come over to place his hands on the counter on either side of me.

"So what do you have to offer?" I challenged.

He moved closer and smirked down at me. "So insatiable, Ms. Gilmore. Give a guy some time to recover, would you? I need to replenish my electrolytes."

I rolled my eyes. "I meant for breakfast."

He sighed as he pushed away from me and headed for the fridge. "Any chance I could interest you in veal parmigiana?"

"You want me to eat baby cow for breakfast?"

"Good to pet, better to chew."

"Sure, but for _breakfast_?"

"Beer, wine, and leftovers… that's about all I've got."

I strode past him to open the pantry and pulled out a box of Frosted Flakes. "Problem solved. Got milk?"

"Where'd that come from?"

"Just get some bowls." I watched him open one cabinet and close it before moving to the next one before he found what he was looking for. "You might want to ask Mrs. Vale to give you a tour of your kitchen sometime."

"I know where all the important stuff is."

"Coffee, beer, wine, and leftovers?"

"Everything that I know how to cook."

"Not a single one of those things involves cooking."

He shrugged. "I never claimed to be Bobby Flay. But hey, you got breakfast after all, didn't you?" He slid me one of the bowls of cereal that he'd just finished pouring.

"That I did. And I'm sure it'll be grrr-reat."

Tristan chuckled and muttered "Smart-ass" around his bite of cereal.

I took my bowl and my coffee around the counter to have a seat, sneaking occasional glances at him. Our eyes kept meeting as we ate in silence, and a smile tugged at my lips each time we caught each other looking.

Tristan apparently hadn't been kidding about his recovery, as he proved his voracious appetite by finishing his cereal in record time. He stretched across the counter to grab the box for a refill before I'd gotten even halfway through my bowl.

When he'd finished his second helping, he stood and stretched out his shoulders. I didn't try to hide my appreciation for his form. I felt him watching me, but didn't bother to remove my gaze from the patch of skin that was revealed as he stretched his arms above his head and his t-shirt rose up his stomach.

"I'm going to shower," he announced. "You should've waited, and you could have joined me. Just to conserve water, of course."

"Of course," I smirked. "Too bad."

"The offer still stands," he said. "Care to join?"

"What about your electrolytes?" I teased.

He nodded toward his empty cereal bowl. "I just had the breakfast of champions. I'm all set."

"Wheaties is the breakfast of champions," I corrected.

He ignored my baiting. "What do you say?"

What could I say? With Tristan looking down at me with heated eyes, there was only one possible answer. I wordlessly took his offered hand and let him pull me up off my barstool.


	19. Boundaries

**Master of My Domain**

 **Disclaimer:** Gilmore Girls was created by ASP and is property of Warner Bros Television/Hofflund Polone/Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **A/N:** OMG guys. I'm sorry it's been so long. No, the story is not done, and yes, I am still alive, contrary to what you may have assumed.

 **Chapter 19 - Boundaries**

"You told me that if you were still here when I left at 6, I should remind you that you have a hot hunk of man waiting for you, so you should scrap tomorrow's issue and get out of here while you're still young."

I looked up to see Dani leaning in the doorway of my office - because, yes, as Features Editor I warranted an _office_ for the first time in my career.

I gave her a skeptical look. "I'm pretty sure that's not exactly what I told you."

"I embellished a bit," Dani admitted. "Still, it is 6, and you do have a date."

"I asked you to remind me at 6 so that I can make sure I _actually_ leave by 6:30."

"Should I expect to see you home this weekend?"

"I don't know, Mom," I joked. "Will _you_ even be home to notice whether I'm there or not? Devon is picking you up, right?"

"Yep. And you never know. Usually, we just end up at whoever's place is closest to the restaurant."

"How romantic," I joked.

"You're one to talk," Dani pointed out. "Remember, I am at our apartment about half the time, and don't think I haven't noticed that you're _not_ there lately."

"Touche," I admitted. "And at least you and Devon go to restaurants first."

Dani raised her eyebrow. "Are you saying the time you spend with Tristan is _not_ at restaurants?"

Realizing that might have been an overshare, I shrugged it off and deflected with sarcasm. "Our schedules are both so busy, we have to prioritize our time. What can I say? Over the past week or so, food just hasn't been the highest priority."

"I totally get that," Dani confirmed with a knowing grin. "Don't work too late, and maybe you can actually get dinner tonight. You know - have your cake and eat it, too."

"I really am leaving within the next half hour."

"Uh-huh, sure. I'll believe that when I see it. But fortunately for me, I won't be there to see it, because _I_ know when to call it a day. Devon will be here any minute - I'm off!"

"Have a great night, and I'll see you later."

I turned my attention back to my computer screen, promising myself that I really would finish up within the next 30 minutes. Despite my joking with Dani, I did actually have dinner plans. Tristan and I had managed to clear time in our schedules for an entire weekend together, starting with dinner tonight.

All that stood between me and my weekend were these two final stories that needed to be proofed. I breezed through them, and was packing up my computer by 6:28. Right on time.

Almost exactly twenty-five minutes later, I was in Tristan's elevator on my way up to the 22nd floor. I hiked my laptop bag further up my shoulder. It was weighed down by the work that I'd taken home with me for the weekend. Or, to Tristan's house for the weekend, anyway.

My knock was answered promptly. The door swung open to reveal Tristan in a dark grey suit and a loosened blue tie that made his eyes look particularly striking.

 _I'm pretty sure I'll never get tired of looking at him._

He apparently felt the same, because he stood in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest while he gave me a full appraisal. After the space of several heartbeats, I raised my brow. "Am I going to get to come in?"

He responded by pulling on the strap of my book bag to draw me inside. He hastily stripped me of the bag, setting it on a side table before he pulled me against him and lowered his mouth to mine. His lips brushed mine gently at first before he parted them and kissed me like he meant it. My tongue slid leisurely against his and I felt myself relax, losing the tension that I hadn't even known I'd been carrying.

We each drew in a much-needed breath of air when he finally pulled away. "I've missed you," he told me huskily.

I felt a flush rising in my cheeks, either from his sentiment or from his treatment a moment before. It was hard to tell which.

 _I've missed him, too_.

The thought was a bit jarring. I was used to my independence, and I wasn't accustomed to missing anyone. Instead of echoing his feelings, I played it cool. "I don't blame you," I joked. "I'm very missable."

"I'm impressed," he told me as he ushered me further inside. "You're on time tonight."

"I'm always on time!" I protested.

"Actually, no. You used to always be on time, but you've grown lax. I'm starting to think I'm not a priority anymore."

"When did you think you were my priority?" I teased.

"Ouch. That hurts."

"I can see you're devastated." As I spoke, he had turned his back to me and gone to the kitchen to grab a chocolate chip cookie from the canister on the counter. "Aren't we about to have dinner?"

"Yes. You want one?"

"Yes." I grinned and snatched a cookie from the jar he offered. I'd never really believed the propaganda about spoiling one's appetite. "It smells amazing in here."

"Dinner's almost ready." He gestured for me to have a seat at the counter in front of one of the two place settings. He moved around the counter to take two wine glasses from the cabinet and filled them with what I'm sure was a very nice cabernet.

I smiled, touched by the scene. "You made dinner?"

"Technically, Mrs. Vale made dinner. I heated it up, though."

"That counts," I assured.

"Good, because I can guarantee that's as close as I'm ever going to get."

"You've got a good one in Mrs. Vale," I told him. "When do you plan to seal the deal and make an honest woman out of her?"

He raised an eyebrow and a smile played at the corner of his lips while he handed me my wine. "I don't think Mr. Vale would appreciate that."

My follow-up quip was interrupted by the sudden buzzing emanating from the counter behind Tristan, and I glanced back to where he'd plugged his phone in.

"Our weekend of no responsibilities has officially started," I reminded him. "Leave it."

He grimaced, and gave me an apologetic look while he unplugged the phone and brought it to his ear. "Donnel."

I rolled my eyes at him with a smirk. It was already a known fact that neither of us would make it through our weekend of no responsibilities without stealing at least a little time for work.

"No, don't send that over an unsecured network," Tristan was saying. "Anita will make sure it gets to Erikson and Santos."

I gave him a pointed look and mimed hanging up the phone, but he held up a finger. At least it was a polite one.

"Who is it?" I whispered, but he just shook his head.

I held my wrist up to him and pointed to my non-existent watch, but he ignored me. "Yes, email that to me."

The oven beeped, and Tristan dug in a drawer for oven mitts while he was still absorbed in his phone call. I slipped off my barstool and took the mitts from him, then pulled the bubbly lasagna from the oven and set the pan on a trivet that Tristan had laid out. There was also garlic bread, which I pulled out and set on the stove.

Shedding my oven hits, I turned to face Tristan with a pointed look, waving at the lasagna that I was already starting to salivate over. He held up a finger again, and I narrowed my eyes at him. I was starting to want to give him the non-polite one.

"Santos's team told us that they're expecting to need another week. If it's more than that, we'll need to adjust," Tristan told the phone.

I decided that maybe he just needed more motivation. I approached him slowly, and he watched me with an apologetic expression until I had backed him up against the kitchen counter and pressed myself against him, which is when his expression decidedly changed.

I brought my hands to his hips and slid my palms up his abdomen and chest, spreading them to slide under his jacket and push it off his shoulders. I managed to get it off one arm, and though he looked at me questioningly, he gave in to my persistence and switched his phone to his other hand to shrug out of the blazer and let it fall to the floor.

"No, don't let him send that off yet, I still need to look over it," he said.

I loosened and removed his tie while looking up at him demurely, and when I began unbuttoning his shirt, he raised his brow in warning. I pressed my lips to each new sliver of skin I revealed as I worked the buttons down his chest, and he tried to pull away, but he was trapped.

"Yes. Um-hm…" I smirked against his skin when he started to stammer. "Yes, send that to me, please."

"Who is it?" I whispered again.

"Charlene," he mouthed to me, covering the mouthpiece briefly. "No, send that to Anita," he said into the phone.

When I reached the last buttons of his shirt, I made sure that my fingers brushed against the skin above his waistband. He cleared his throat, and I grinned.

"Yes, email that to me."

That was enough. Before he could stop me, I reached up and snatched the phone away from him. "Charlene?"

"Miss Gilmore?" she asked, surprised.

"He's going to have to call you back. Bye." I spun around and deposited the phone in the refrigerator.

Tristan looked at me like I'd just stolen his lollipop. "That was Charlene!"

"Yes, I heard, but you were just telling her to email stuff. She'll figure it out. You shouldn't underestimate her competence. I'm pretty sure she's telepathic."

"I can't believe you just hung up on Charlene," he told me again, but I could tell he was fighting a smile.

"It's Friday night," I countered.

"Some of us have to work for a living."

"I work for a living, too, and yet I feel completely confident in my decision to leave my phone on silent, way over there in my bag." I waved vaguely over my shoulder. "Because I have a work/life boundary. You should look into getting one. I think they sell them at IKEA."

He raised an eyebrow. "I think your own work/life boundary might be a little frayed, too. Maybe we can go shopping together."

"We can add it to the agenda for this weekend."

He grimaced. "Speaking of the weekend, I have to tell you something."

"Can it wait?"

He looked down at himself as if just realizing that he was halfway undressed. "Does this mean we're not eating dinner right now?"

"Oh, um…" I hedged, and looked up at him guiltily.

"You're still hungry," he guessed.

"Well, in addition to other things… yes."

"You still want to have dinner."

"It smells soooo good."

He shook his head at me with a rueful smile while he started to button his shirt. "Hasn't anyone ever told you that you shouldn't start something that you can't finish?"

"I have every intention of finishing, but I'm not at the top of my game. You know I'm not at my best on an empty stomach."

"I like you even at your worst."

He moved past me to retrieve his phone from the fridge, but I didn't even try to stop him. I was disarmed by the casual way he'd thrown out that last statement. What caught me more off-guard was the warm feeling that spread from the pit of my stomach which seemed directly correlated to the smile on my face, and for once, had little to do with lust.

"Then hurry it up, Gilmore," he called over his shoulder. I looked back to see that he was already halfway to the dining table, carrying the lasagna in one hand and the bread in the other. "Let's get you back to the top of your game."

"So what's the special occasion?" I asked as I took a seat in front of one of the place settings. "Mrs. Vale has never cooked for me before."

His smile faltered a bit, and he kept his gaze on the bread as he dumped it into a basket. "I have something to tell you."

"So you said. I'm at the edge of my seat."

"I think I'd rather wait until you've had some lasagna."

He dished up a helping for each of us and I snagged two pieces of bread from the basket.

"Ah. So this is bribe lasagna?"

"Not a bribe, exactly, but a little comfort food can go a long way in the delivery of unpleasant news."

"Uh-oh. How unpleasant?"

He gestured at my plate, and I rolled my eyes but acquiesced. My first mouthful was so delicious that all thoughts of the impending unpleasant news faded away until I had cleaned half my plate. "So, spill," I finally prodded. "What do you have to tell me?"

He took a sip of wine before meeting my gaze, and he looked a little guilty. "I can't do the weekend we had planned."

I sighed. "Well that sucks."

"Tell me about it."

"How come? Work?" It didn't take much of a leap to assume that work was the reason he was bailing on our plans.

He nodded in confirmation and took another sip of wine. "I have to go out of town."

"I thought you said you usually don't have to travel."

"I don't, usually. This is _un_ usual travel."

"Like, to Madagascar?"

"Not that kind of unusual."

"To Iceland?"

He sighed. "To California."

"That's anti-climactic."

He refilled his wine glass while he tried to explain. "Do you remember that big deal I've been working on?"

"How could I forget? Either Anita or Charlene calls you about it every hour, on the hour."

"It'll all be over soon enough, but first I need to go to California."

"Don't you have like a couple hundred other guys at your disposal? Send one of them instead."

"They're not 'at my disposal'," he insisted, although I knew that it was basically true. "And believe me, I don't want to go either, but I'm the only one who can do it. Anita's already been working with Santos's and Erikson's teams there for the past month, and I'm the only other one with clearance. It's a confidential deal."

"When do you have to leave?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"Well that sucks," I said again, now sullenly pushing my leftover lasagna around my plate. I hadn't realized how much I'd been looking forward to a nearly-uninterrupted weekend with Tristan until the opportunity went up in flames before my eyes.

"I know. It does. I'm sorry."

I shrugged, trying to make the best of it. "It won't be a total loss, I guess. This means now that I have time to squeeze in some work of my own."

"I'm really sorry, Rory. I was looking forward to our weekend. Just us."

Hearing him say it made me feel better. I wasn't the only one. But I pasted a smile on my face. "That's okay. We can reschedule."

"I'll hold you to that," he told me.

I pushed my chair back and stood to gather our plates, and Tristan followed me back into the kitchen with our wine glasses and the pan of lasagna.

"So what's your pressing work for the weekend?" Tristan asked. "Anything interesting?"

"Actually, yes." The status quo for me lately was primarily editing work, which, though I enjoyed it, was not always the most exciting. "I've been chasing a story based on an anonymous lead for the past couple months, and I think I've finally got a hit. I found someone who agreed to an anonymous interview on behalf of the company I'm looking into."

"How'd you manage that?"

"I have my ways," I replied mysteriously.

"I've never doubted you."

"I threatened to run the story with what we have now. Which is basically nothing, but I must've underestimated my own poker face, because I think that bluff was the only thing that made the guy cave."

"Can I see your poker face?" he challenged.

"I can't perform on demand," I insisted.

"No? Well, maybe later." He dried his hands on the dishcloth after putting our plates into the dishwasher, and leaned against the counter next to me. "So I've got nine and a half hours and counting before I need to leave for the airport. Any ideas on how we can pass the time?"

I smiled. "I'm sure we can think of something."

 **. . . . .**

THE NEXT MORNING, I frowned petulantly at Tristan while he was putting his shoes on. "This is exactly what I'm talking about when I tell you that you need a work/life boundary. It's six o'clock in the morning. On a Saturday," I complained.

Tristan glanced back at me as he headed for the door. "This isn't a good time for me to establish a boundary. Talk to me again once this deal is done."

"There will just be another one after this."

He gave me a half smile. "You're probably right."

"I'm always right."

"You like to think you're always right. That's not quite the same thing."

"Oh, get out of here, you." I shoved at him ineffectually while he reached for the doorknob.

"I'll see you later," he promised.

"If you're lucky."

He leaned in to steal a quick kiss before he slipped out the door, leaving me alone in his apartment. I gave one glance to the coffee maker, but not even that was enough to make me forget that it was six o'clock in the morning. On a Saturday.

I padded in my bare feet back to Tristan's bedroom and fell back into bed.


End file.
